Suicide Is Stainless
by nice-day
Summary: After some rather clumsy bounty hunting, the Bebop crew find themselves stuck on Earth. In desperate need of money for fuel, Spike and Co. embark upon a hunt for a man with a formidable reputation. *COMPLETE*
1. Paint Your Wagon

Disclaimer: I do not own Cowboy Bebop or any of the characters therein.  
  
1) Paint Your Wagon.  
  
Mao stood at the centre of the ring, scratching nervously at his left leg. Looking around, he tried to make out some of the faces that were looking back at him from the darkened stands so he could properly gauge their mood. However, the contrast in light levels between the brightly spotlighted ring and the murky surroundings made it impossible to pick out all but the most vague of facial features. One thing Mao could gauge though, was the discontented mumblings that were emanating from beyond the cinderblock boundaries of the ring area. The crowd was becoming restless. Swallowing hard, he raised the cordless microphone that he held in his right hand to his mouth.  
  
"Ladies and Gentleman." Mao's voice rang out around the temporary arena. "We apologise for the delay. The competitors are engaged in some last minute warming up and I can assure you they will be ready momentarily. I'm sure you'll agree with me when I say that a bout of this magnitude is well worth the wait. And remember, this evening's proceedings are brought to you by the Blue Rat Alliance, in association with Skyfall Spring Water, 'A sprinkle of moon dust in every bottle'."  
  
Mao let his arm fall loose at his side and, once he was sure the mike was sufficiently far from his face, gave a soft sigh. He was pretty sure he had just bought himself another two or three minutes. Also, the eleven o'clock beer rounds had just finished, so everyone probably still had something in their glasses. Though he had seen crowds turn ugly enough to throw glassware at a ring announcer, he had yet to see one that would waste perfectly good beer in the process.  
  
"Psst, Mao." There came a strong whisper from behind.  
  
Mao looked over his shoulder. His addresser was a tall, slender man, dressed in T-shirt and jeans and equipped with a microphone headset. He was standing in a gap in the ring wall, which led into a corridor that ran beneath the temporary seating.  
  
"Psst, Mao." he repeated. "Mao, get over here."  
  
He then began to gesture strongly for Mao to come over. Turning back to the crowd, Mao raised his microphone once more.  
  
"Excuse me for just a second, folks." he said in the most confident, professional manner he could. "It looks like something's going on in the back. Just sit tight and we may have some action for you in just a few moments."  
  
Lowering the mike, Mao turned and trotted across the sandy surface of the ring to the entranceway.  
  
"What is it, Cheech?" he asked hopefully as he reached his colleague. "Is he ready yet?"  
  
"The hell he is." Cheech snapped, his anxiety getting the better of him. "He's still in his dressing room. We think he might be meditating or somethin'."  
  
"Well he'd better get out here soon, or this crowd's gonna tear fuckin' my face off!" Mao barked in return.  
  
"I dunno what to tell you." Cheech shrugged. "He won't answer his door or nothin'."  
  
Mao bared his teeth as his frustration began to mount.  
  
"Well what the hell are you telling me for?"  
  
Cheech broke eye contact with Mao, and took a deep breath.  
  
"Uh. . . I was kinda hopin' you'd go and call him out."  
  
"What?!" Mao shouted, almost loud enough to be audible over the mike at his side. "Why don't you go and call him out?"  
  
"I already knocked twice." Cheech replied. "Shouted though the door once, too."  
  
"Well, can't you shout him again?" Mao asked.  
  
Cheech's eyebrows shot skywards at the suggestion.  
  
"No fuckin' way, man." he said, quite categorically. "I heard he once punched some guy's head clean off his fuckin' shoulders, just for callin' him to the ring five minutes early."  
  
"Yeah, well you shouldn't believe everything you hear." said Mao, and then he paused for a moment. "And besides, why should I stick my neck out?"  
  
"Well I figured you'd be alright," Cheech informed Mao, rubbing the back of his head nervously. "Since you sorta know him, 'n' all."  
  
"Know him!" Mao exclaimed. "Wha' d' y' mean I know him? I met him, once, getting off the bus this morning. Look man, find some other idiot to go get him, 'cause if you think I'm gonna go back there and my brains spread up the goddamn wall, then you got another thing comin'!"  
  
"Fine!" Cheech shouted back. "You go back out there, and you tell them there ain't gonna be a fight. And while you're at it, why don't you tell there that there ain't no refunds neither?"  
  
Mao was then reminded of the discontented crowd, and the look of anger dissolved from his face.  
  
"So what's it gonna be?" Cheech asked. "It's either him or the crowd. You've gotta face one of 'em, 'cause I sure as hell ain't gonna."  
  
Mao knew there was only one choice here, though he dreaded having to make it. It was days like these that he regretted ever having fallen into this line of work. Taking a consoling lung-full of warm, smoky air, he made the only decision he could.  
  
"I guess I'll go get him, then." he said.  
  
"Cool." smiled Cheech, and then slapped Mao on the back. "You got five minutes."  
  
Mao gave a deliberately insincere smile in return, and then pushed past his less than esteemed colleague.  
  
Making his way down the poorly lit corridor, Mao passed by a succession of characters. These ranged from the caterers and teamsters hired to deal with the ancillary tasks involved in such an event, to the various wives and girlfriends of the fighters around whom this whole occasion revolved. The fighters themselves were all safely tucked away behind the doors of the makeshift dressing rooms that lined the corridors of this usually derelict building. That was, all the fighters save one.  
  
Along his route Mao encountered one of the two competitors from the main event. The tall, well-muscled individual was dressed in blue boxing shorts, and had a long platted ponytail that hung down his back from an otherwise bald head. He was stood with his back to one wall of the corridor, and was throwing a succession of lightning fast punches and kicks at thin air. One particularly distinguishing feature was his right leg. For below his knee, the limb was entirely artificial. The metallic extremity flashed and glinted in the dim light as it was repeatedly thrust into the air ahead of its owner.  
  
The fighter cast a brief glance at Mao as he approached, and then continued with his last minute training.  
  
"You gonna get him now?" he enquired.  
  
"Yeah." Mao replied. "You'd better go get ready."  
  
The fighter snorted, and thumbed his nose.  
  
"I am ready. Now get him out here, or I'll go do it myself."  
  
Mao didn't respond to this empty posturing, and just walked by without a second glance. He was unconcerned about whether this snubbing would be greeted with offence since the fighter would most likely be dead within ten minutes anyway.  
  
Reaching a junction in the corridor, Mao stopped. His destination lay just around the corner. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and gathered his composure.  
  
"Okay," he muttered to himself. "Let's do this."  
  
Mao turned the corner and was confronted by a short stretch of corridor, which ended with a door. Upon its face was taped a piece of white paper with the word 'Steele' scrawled upon it in barely legible handwriting. Mao took the few paces to the door and quickly knocked on it, before he could change his mind.  
  
"Mr Steele?" he called, gingerly. "It's time to go, Mr Steele."  
  
There was no answer. Steeling himself, Mao tried again.  
  
"Mr Steele. The match is due to start now."  
  
Again, there was no reply. Mao was becoming anxious. Cheech's little horror story was still fresh in his mind, and he was afraid that his persistence could earn him a starring role in a similar tale. But then again, there could be an even worse fate in store if he failed to give the audience what they wanted. His employers would not tolerate bad press.  
  
Mao sighed. He knew what he had to do.  
  
"Third time's the charm." he said, and knocked once more. "Mr Steele! Mr Steele, you have to come out now. It's time for your. . ."  
  
Mao cut himself off with a sharp gasp. The door swung open.  
  
***Session somewhere between 9 and 24: Suicide Is Stainless.***  
  
Jet ran the fine spray of beige paint across the vertical metal surface a few more times, watching closely as the last few streaks of naked metal were gradually covered. Once he was happy that he had good coverage he released the button on the canister, causing the sparse brown haze to dry up. He then placed the can on the wooden workbench at his side, and pulled the fume mask from over his mouth. Stroking his uncomfortably ruffled beard, Jet leaned forward to make one last examination of his workmanship.  
  
"Ah, a work of art." he said to himself, smiling with satisfaction.  
  
The art of which he spoke was the repair work he had been engaged in for the last couple of days, and his canvas the hangar door of the Bebop. The door was slightly raised, allowing a narrow slither of warm sunlight to trickle into the otherwise dim hangar. The sun's glow had imparted pleasing warmth upon Jet's boots as he had been working. That and the gentle rocking of the hull had made for a particularly relaxing working environment; a rare luxury on this 'ship of lost souls', as Jet would sometimes refer to it in the privacy of his own mind.  
  
The Bebop was currently afloat in a small harbour on the coast of Southern Old Asia on Earth. Such stop offs were rare for the ship, as certain denizens were not entirely enamoured with the little blue has-been of a planet. However, certain incidents during the pursuit of their last bounty head had made this stop more of a necessity than a luxury.  
  
Jet picked up a rag from the bench and began to wipe the residual paint from his hands. As he did so, a voice came from behind him,  
  
"You finished yet?"  
  
Jet grunted as his smile of satisfaction turned into a frown of disgruntlement.  
  
"Yeah, no thanks to you." he stated, without looking away from the glistening wet paint.  
  
There followed the sound of several footfalls upon the metal deck plates, and then Spike materialised alongside him. Leaning over from just next to the tarp that protected the floor, he made his own inspection of the fresh paint job.  
  
"Took you long enough." he said.  
  
Jet shot an angry look at Spike only to find that, as always, he had lit cigarette hanging loosely from between his lips.  
  
"Hey!" Jet exclaimed, snatching the fuming stick from his partner's mouth. "Don't you know that that can damage the paint?"  
  
He then dropped the cigarette to the ground and stamped it out. Spike groaned softly, and briefly looked at Jet as he might a nagging spouse. This just maddened Jet further.  
  
"Don't look at me like that, Spike." he warned. "I'm in a bad enough mood with you as it is."  
  
"Don't tell me your still crying over a little scratched paintwork." Spike sighed.  
  
Jet's eyes widened.  
  
"Scratched paintwork?" he echoed. "Spike, you shot two dozen holes in the hangar door. And you managed to wing the Hammerhead in the process."  
  
"Look, I already told you it was an accident." Spike explained wearily. "We were fighting in a debris field. You know how awkward it is to manoeuvre and aim at close quarters."  
  
"Yeah, I know." Jet conceded, reluctantly. "But would it have been so hard to just stop firing when the Bebop came into your line of sight?"  
  
"Hey, you know how I get lost in the moment sometimes." Spike said, coolly. "Anyway, we caught the guy, didn't we? And the bounty covered the cost of the repairs."  
  
"Barely." Jet grumbled. "And that's another thing we need to discuss."  
  
At this, Spike sighed deeply, and inserted his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. Blindly he fumbled around the lone box of cigarettes that it contained, and extracted the first cigarette of which he could get hold. He then removed it from his pocket, placed it in his mouth, and awaited whatever scolding he was about to receive.  
  
"Now, I realise that you're physically incapable of not causing heavy property damage when you chase a bounty head, and I can appreciate that." Jet explained in as understanding a tone as his mood would allow. "But couldn't you at least try to weight the amount of damage you do by the size of the bounty you're chasing? Y'know, so we have something left over at the end for food and for fuel, and for any other stuff we might need to stay alive."  
  
Spike delved back into his jacket, this time extracting a silver cigarette lighter. He then turned and began to walk away. Jet turned around and watched as he passed by the neatly folded away Swordfish.  
  
"Well, Spike?" he called after him. "Are you gonna answer me or not?"  
  
Spike lit the lighter, causing a faint orange glow to be projected against the wall of the dimly lit hangar.  
  
"Big Shot's back on in a minute." he replied eventually, continuing into the shadows.  
  
"Spike!" Jet barked.  
  
Spike stopped. There was a loud click as he shut the lid of the lighter. The orange glow was extinguished, and a thin wisp of smoke emerged from beyond Spike's away-facing head. He then plucked the cigarette from his mouth and held it away from his face.  
  
"No promises." he said.  
  
Spike then replaced the cigarette, and melted into the darkness.  
  
Jet took a weary breath of the now slightly tainted sea air, and looked back to the hangar door.  
  
"Non-committal." he observed. "I guess it was the best I could've hoped for."  
  
He then gave a muted gasp of horror as he noticed a trace of ash that had become lodged in the tacky paint.  
  
"Aw, Spike. . ." he lamented.  
  
------------------------------------- --------------------------------- ---- --------------------------  
  
Spike marched the last few yards to the door of the lounge, hands clasped behind his head, and turned into the doorway just in time to hear the gunshot that heralded the return of Big Shot after 'a short message from our sponsors'. Stepping over the threshold, he noticed that the room had changed slightly since he had left to grace Jet with his presence, albeit briefly. The lights had been dimmed slightly, and there was an attractive, rather revealingly clothed woman lying flat out across the far couch.  
  
Spike did not greet this sight with the pleased surprise that many men might.  
  
"You have a room for a reason, Faye." he said with a quiet indignation.  
  
Faye opened one eye, and glanced at Spike. She then looked back up at the ceiling and closed the eye once more.  
  
"It was stuffy in there." she informed him, sounding almost as if she was surprised he did not know.  
  
She then shifted around on the couch to attain maximum comfort, and let out a relaxed sigh.  
  
This sort of lethargic behaviour had been a prominent feature of the last couple of days. With the Bebop grounded until the damage to the hull could be fixed and the engine refuelled, the crew had been left stranded on Earth. What was worse, they had no money to speak of, and no money to spend was tantamount to no reason to leave the ship. With things being the way they were, it hadn't taken long for certain bounty hunters to start getting under each other's feet.  
  
Spike dropped his hands from behind his head and turned his cigarette down at the ground.  
  
"I was sitting there." he grumbled between his teeth.  
  
"You left this seat unattended." Faye replied, this time without opening an eye. "I'm just exercising the right of salvage. You know, the one with the finders and the keepers?"  
  
"I'm not kidding, Faye." Spike said, beginning to get a little frustrated by her childish behaviour. "I was sitting there."  
  
Faye opened an eye again, indicating that she had to some small degree taken Spike's warning seriously.  
  
"Relax, Spike." she said. "Why can't you just sit on the other chair? Seriously, I'm beginning to think you're going stir crazy from being stuck in this bucket."  
  
Spike grunted, and stuffed his hands into his pockets.  
  
"You should be glad Jet wasn't here to hear you say that." he commented.  
  
He then looked down at the chair nearest him. True enough, he could sit there if he wanted to. However, he preferred not to sit with his back to the door. It was an idiosyncrasy he had developed during 'happier' days, before his time on the Bebop, and had had trouble shaking off. What was also true was that being confined to the ship was affecting his mood somewhat. While being on a spaceship that was actually in space afforded one unparalleled freedom, being on one that was pasted to a planet by gravity was a very, very different matter. Of course, Spike did not say any such thing, as he reserved openly agreeing with Faye for only the most extreme of circumstances.  
  
Lacking the energy or the desire to continue his feud with Faye, Spike opted for changing the subject instead.  
  
"So, did I miss anything?" he said as he rounded the nearest chair.  
  
Faye yawned, and then answered,  
  
"Not unless you were planning to buy a sulphur mine on Io, or a methane farm on Neptune."  
  
Spike adopted a flat expression as he planted his backside into the plastic upholstery of his chair.  
  
"No thanks." he said, and then cast a glance at Ein who was lying on his side at the foot of the stairs to his right. "This place smells bad enough as it is."  
  
Spike slouched down into his chair, causing the back of his jacket to grumble loudly as it was dragged across the rubbery surface of the upholstery. He hated that sound. He then hoisted his right foot up and dropped it wearily onto the table. The surprise jolt caused the TV picture jump and roll. The startled contraption continued to fret for a few seconds before finally calming down.  
  
It seemed that Faye had taken the liberty of turning down the volume on the set to aid her in her beauty sleep. Spike was not especially concerned by this however, as today's 'menu' did not appear terribly appetising. He didn't really feel like trawling Jupiter for smugglers, or fishing around Uranus for pirates anyway. And even if he did, there was no way it was going to happen any time soon. Without the money for fuel, the Bebop and her crew were confined to hunting bounties on Earth, of which there seemed to be precious few.  
  
Uninterested in the procession of unviable bounties, Spike consoled himself by watching the show's female presenter as she bounced and jiggled. However, he was finding it hard to concentrate on these fascinating motions due to a rather irritating sound that was emanating from beyond Faye's couch. This frantic clicking was interfering with Spike's viewing pleasure, and it was beginning to work on his already fraying nerves.  
  
"Is she still at it?" he asked Faye, wearily.  
  
"Fifteen hours straight." she replied. "Those goggles are gonna fuse to her face if she doesn't quit soon. Mind you, Ed is the only one around here who hasn't been in a bad mood recently."  
  
Spike sighed.  
  
"My kingdom for a hobby."  
  
If only everyone were so easily entertained.  
  
"You could try going out for a while." Faye suggested. "Fresh air might do you some good. And besides, that storm cloud that's been following you around can't be good for my complexion."  
  
"Ach, there's nothing to see on this mud ball." Spike complained. "Not unless you like derelict buildings and craters."  
  
"Wheeeee!" a shrill cry came from behind the couch.  
  
Faye waited for it to die down before replying.  
  
"Suit yourself. But if you're going to insist on brooding, could you at least do it quietly? I need to catch up on my beauty sleep."  
  
"What, you only get twelve hours last night?" Spike sniped.  
  
However, his jibe went unanswered. This just served to darken Spike's mood. There was nothing to do on this planet, not even bating Faye.  
  
"Potatoes!" Ed's joyous voice rang out once more. "Potatoes! It's Potatoes! Yaaaay!"  
  
This cry was accompanied by the brief flailing of two stringy arms above the back of the sofa. These were then quickly retracted, and the frenzied clicking began anew.  
  
"Well, at least someone around here is having a good time." Spike observed.  
  
He then returned his attention to the television set. Unfortunately, the buoyant Judy had been replaced by yet another set of stats for yet another all too distant bounty. Now that there was nothing worth watching on the screen, Spike tried to listen to the output of the speakers instead. Too lazy to lean forward and raise the volume, he strained his ears to hear what was being said. Slowly, the false Mexican strains of Punch became audible.  
  
". . . and then he flushed all twenty of them down a public toilet! No wonder the police have deemed this bad hombre worthy of six big fat zeros!"  
  
"Charming." Muttered Spike.  
  
The shot then reverted to the presenters who, as always, were decked in gaudy, historically inaccurate cowboy garb.  
  
"Well, that's all we have time for today, Cowpokes." squeaked Judy. "Tune in tomorrow for. . ."  
  
"Now, hold on there, Judy." Punch interrupted his co-presenter. "Ain't you forgetting something?"  
  
Judy turned to him with a poorly feigned look of surprise.  
  
"Why, whatever do you mean, Punch?"  
  
"It's the last day of the month, and you know what that means." Punch replied.  
  
Judy gasped, and there followed a dramatic pause. Suddenly, the words Bonus Bounty flashed across the screen in large, old west style lettering. A chorus of voices shouting the same, and a riot of six-shooter gunshots accompanied this.  
  
"That's right!" Punch exclaimed into the camera. "It's time for the monthly bonus bounty."  
  
"Yesuree." Judy concurred. "This month we've got a right humdinger for you. Last seen on Earth, this big, bad outlaw is something of a collector's item."  
  
"Yeah, and you'd better move quickly, because this could be your last chance before he goes underground for good." Punch took over.  
  
This piqued Spike's interest. This was the first bounty that had actually been within reach, and could prove to be his ticket of this paltry rock. Also, after money, the biggest reward of bounty hunting was notoriety, and by the sound of it, this bounty head could be quite a reputation booster. Leaning forward, Spike listened more closely.  
  
"This guy is a legendary syndicate pit-fighter, whose last known whereabouts were somewhere in Eastern Old Europe." Punch continued.  
  
"Legendary. . . pit-fighter?" Spike repeated the words.  
  
His eyes-widened slightly, as he began to suspect that he already knew whom they were talking about.  
  
"He's getting' on in years now," Judy picked up where Punch left off. "And rumour has it that his retirement fight's gonna be sometime in the next couple of weeks."  
  
"Come on." Spike muttered. "Get to the point."  
  
"But don't let the modest reward fool you, this guy is as tough as they come." Judy warned. "He goes by the handle of. . ."  
  
Then a mug shot flashed up on the screen. Spike's jaw loosened, allowing his smouldering cigarette to escape his lips and tumble to the floor. His suspicion was confirmed. As he stared into the screen, he uttered in unison with the presenter,  
  
"Stainless Steele." 


	2. Handbags and Gladrags

2) Handbags and Gladrags.  
  
It was him. His skin was hung slightly looser about bones, and his once pitch hair had faded into an indifferent grey, but it was him.  
  
"I'll be damned." Spike muttered to himself.  
  
As Spike stared into the metallic blue eyes of the electronic likeness, faint memories began to emerge. There were no specific images, nor chains of events, but rather sounds and sensations. The smell of stale, smoke filled air, the taste of warm, flat beer, and the excited murmurings of an anticipant crowd were recalled from the recesses of his mind by the sight of Steele's battle hardened features. The deeper he stared into the fighter's entrancingly frigid eyes that sense of anticipation that he too had once felt, began to overtake him once more.  
  
"You know this guy?"  
  
Spike was pulled from his trance by Faye's inquisitive strains. She was now sitting up in her chair and leaning towards the television. Her emerald green eyes were fixed upon the image of Steele, as Spike's had been only seconds earlier.  
  
Leaning away from the TV set, and readopting his usual nonchalant expression, Spike replied,  
  
"You could say that."  
  
"So, who is he then?" Faye asked, peering briefly at Spike over the flat, holographic image.  
  
"Stainless Steele." Spike said, trying to sound indifferent.  
  
Faye furrowed her brow. She knew that Spike was trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible, but her curiosity was not going to allow that to happen.  
  
"Yeah, I know that." she said, indignantly. "What I want to know is why you zoned out when his picture came up."  
  
"I didn't zone out, Faye." Spike retorted. "I was just interested to see what they had to say about Steele from a professional stand point."  
  
Faye huffed sceptically.  
  
"Since when were you professional?"  
  
"Since I took up professional babysitting." Spike said, sending a particularly piercing glare Faye's way.  
  
"Ha ha." Faye drawled. "Listened Spike. I've spent the last three years of my life - the only ones I can remember - sitting at poker tables. I can tell what colour underwear a guy's wearing by the way he blinks his eyelids. You can't fool me. Now, what is it with you and this Steele guy?"  
  
Spike loosened his expression, not wanting to give Faye the impression that she was getting to him. There was a short pause, which was followed by Spike's enigmatic reply.  
  
"Blue."  
  
Faye cocked an eyebrow quizzically.  
  
"What?" she asked.  
  
"Blue." Spike repeated. " The colour of my underwear."  
  
Faye growled, and threw herself back into the couch. Folding her arms, she glared angrily into Spike's solemn eyes.  
  
"Fine." she grumbled. "You be Mr Mysterious if you want. As if your life could possibly be that interesting."  
  
"Yeah, as if." Spike muttered, ironically.  
  
He then reached into his jacket and extracted a fresh cigarette. A second foray into his garment yielded a cigarette lighter, which Spike promptly lit and raised towards the beckoning tip of the cigarette.  
  
A series of heavy footfalls reverberated from beyond the circular door behind Spike, causing him to look up alertly from the elegant dancing of the flame atop the lighter. His ears pricked up, and his muscles tensed as his body automatically prepared itself for action.  
  
"You two aren't fighting again, are you?" Jet said as he ducked under the edge of the doorframe.  
  
Spike sighed wearily and relaxed back in his chair. He never could get used to sitting with his back to an open door.  
  
"I'd hate to think that our nice little nuclear family was on the rocks." Jet continued as he passed by Spike.  
  
He then spied the discarded cigarette that was smouldering away forlornly between Spike's feet.  
  
"Damn it, Spike!" he shouted as he reached over with his leg and drove a boot down upon the cigarette, putting it out of its misery. "Are trying to burn down the ship?"  
  
"Yeah." Spike replied, sarcastically. "After that, I thought I might mug Ed and spit roast Ein."  
  
Spike's backhanded retort was met with an anxious canine whine, to which he paid no heed.  
  
"You know, you're this close to being tossed headlong into the sea, Spike." Jet informed his fellow bounty hunter, holding his right thumb and index finger about an inch apart as he did.  
  
"I'll hold the airlock open for you." Faye offered, still baring a look of chagrin. "He's been in a weird mood ever since we've been stuck on Earth."  
  
"He's been bugging you too, huh?" Jet enquired rhetorically.  
  
"Hey guys, I'm right here." Spike protested quietly of his being spoken of in the third person.  
  
"You can say that again." Faye replied to Jet, and ignored Spike. "One minute he's almost ready to break my neck over a chair, the next he's all cagey and secretive."  
  
Jet's expression turned to one that denoted a distinct lack of surprise.  
  
"Who, Spike?" he said. "Cagey and secretive? You don't say."  
  
"Yeah." Faye continued. "He wouldn't even tell me about some bounty head he recognised on the TV."  
  
"Bounty head?" Jet said, and then glanced hopefully down at the television screen.  
  
However, the show had already ended since the three had been bantering, and the credits were now rolling by in its place. Jet grumbled disappointedly, then looked back up at Faye.  
  
"So, who was he?" he asked.  
  
"Some kind of fighter." she replied. "He's got some stupid name. It was Galvanised Steele, or something like that."  
  
"That's Stainless Steele." Spike corrected Faye. "And he's a pit fighter."  
  
"Ah ha!" Faye exclaimed, leaping out of her chair. "So you do know him."  
  
Spike paused for a moment, realising how his outburst must have sounded. Delicately he removed his latest cigarette from his mouth, blew out of fine jet of smoke, and replied,  
  
"Hey, I'm just repeating what I heard on TV. Anyway, you heard what they said. The guy's a 'collector's item'. Every bounty hunter in the system has heard of him."  
  
Faye scowled as her ploy to extract information from Spike was foiled. Jet, in contrast, smiled knowingly.  
  
"Spike," he said. "You are so full of shit."  
  
At this Spike pouted slightly, causing his freshly replaced cigarette to point straight toward the ceiling, and slouched down into his chair. He knew he was about to be exposed.  
  
"That's the guy that you used to go and watch fight back on Mars, isn't it?" Jet said.  
  
Spike didn't answer.  
  
"You used to go and watch him fight?" Faye asked. "Then what the hell was all the fuss about? I thought that it was gonna be something interesting, like that he's you're your father, or an old friend, or at least your old mailman. You know, sometimes I think you do these things just to annoy me."  
  
"Oh, there's more to it than that." said Jet, looking down at Spike.  
  
Spike avoided eye contact with Jet, and slouched yet further into his chair.  
  
"Do you want to tell her, or should I?" Jet asked of him.  
  
His question was met with a frigid silence.  
  
"Okay then." Jet said, and then turned to Faye and continued. "Back when Spike lived on Mars, he used to turn out every week for the pit fights that the local syndicate chapters would run out of warehouses and basements in the cities. Apparently there wasn't much else for a kid to do back then except watch two guys beat each other to a bloody pulp in a dark room. Anyway, there was one particular fighter that Spike had had a soft spot for ever since he was a kid."  
  
"Stainless Steele." Faye interjected.  
  
"Got it in one." said Jet.  
  
Faye frowned, and looked straight at Spike.  
  
"So this guy was your childhood hero?" she asked. "That's it? That's the big secret? Damn it Spike, you're past really must have been dull if that's the best you can do for a secret."  
  
Spike's expression softened slightly. This undesired unveiling of a fragment of his past had come with some consolation in that it had irritated Faye. Shrugging gently, he replied,  
  
"Sorry to disappoint you."  
  
Faye sighed in frustration, and then turned back to Jet.  
  
"So how did you manage to get this information out of him anyway?" she enquired. "Usually, trying to get Spike to answer questions about his past is like trying to get blood from a stone that doesn't have a donor card."  
  
Jet glanced at Spike and smirked mischievously.  
  
"Well, it's funny you should ask." he said.  
  
Spike readopted his pout, and sank back down into the chair.  
  
"One evening, old Spiko here managed to get himself particularly wasted." Jet continued. "After a few glasses of Cap'n Jacob's 2040 special reserve, he couldn't keep his mouth shut."  
  
Faye looked down at Spike. Slowly, a gratified smile began to crawl across her face.  
  
"O-o-oh, so that's what this is about." she purred. "You can't hold your liquor, can you Spike?"  
  
Spike grunted disdainfully.  
  
"I can hold my liquor just fine." he grumbled. "The whisky was bad. Jet insisted that we go to some dive on Ganymede that he used to frequent back in his ISSP days. If you ask me, he should have arrested the guy back then for bartender malpractice."  
  
"Hey, Rodriguez has never served a bad whisky in his life." Jet protested.  
  
"Whatever you say, Jet." Muttered Spike.  
  
"Yeah, you know this is nice and all, but are we actually going to go after this Steele guy or not?" Faye asked bringing an end to Jet and Spike's bickering.  
  
Jet looked up and began to stroke his beard pensively.  
  
"I don't see why not." he said after some brief cogitation. "How 'bout it, Spike? It'd go some way to making up for the mess you made of the last pick- up."  
  
Spike glanced up at Jet, then hoisted both feet up and plopped them down lazily on the table.  
  
"I don't really feel up to it." he replied. "Maybe we should wait for the next one to come along."  
  
"What?" Faye barked. "Just a minute ago you couldn't wait to get off this 'mud ball'. You're not trying to protect Steele, are you?"  
  
"No, I'm not trying to protect Steele." Spike echoed. "I just think we should go for something a little less risky, that's all."  
  
Faye's eyes widened at this.  
  
"Since when were you worried about taking risks?" she said. "For God's sake Spike, how hard could it be? It's only a half-million reward."  
  
"You shouldn't take Stainless so lightly." Spike informed her. "He beats people to death with his bare hands for a living."  
  
"Oh, so it's 'Stainless' now, is it?" said Faye. "Tell me, Spike. If he's so dangerous, then why the small bounty?"  
  
Jet chose this moment to enter the fray.  
  
"Actually, he's right, Faye." he confided. "Pit fighter bounties may not look like much, but that's only because all they do is kill other pit fighters. They're still as dangerous as hell."  
  
Faye folded her arms and complained,  
  
"So I suppose you're gonna want to back out as well."  
  
"Now, I didn't say that." Jet replied. "We're going after Steele, but we are going to have to be careful."  
  
Spike clasped his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.  
  
"Well, good luck with that." he said.  
  
"Good luck nothing." Jet responded. "You're going as well."  
  
Spike sighed deeply at this, and cast a dark look up at his partner.  
  
"I already said I didn't feel up to it." he grumbled. "Besides, you and Faye are grown-ups. You can look after yourselves."  
  
"Nothin' doin', Spike." Jet replied. "No one on this ship knows more about Steele than you do. You're the ideal choice to spearhead this mission. "  
  
"Yeah, Spike." Faye concurred. "Believe it or not, we may actually need you on this one."  
  
Spike frowned scornfully, and then closed his eyes once more.  
  
"You can say what you like," he said. "But you can't make me go out on this one. You might own the Bebop, Jet, but you're not my captain."  
  
Jet's thick eyebrows reared up.  
  
"Oh is that right?" he said. "Well I might not be you're captain, but I am the one who puts a roof over your head and repairs your ship. And I don't even charge rent."  
  
"What's your point?" Spike enquired impatiently.  
  
"My point is that unless you want to hitchhike after your next bounty head, I'd suggest you start being a little more cooperative." Jet replied.  
  
This was met by another cold silence. Spike's facial expression remained unchanged as he mulled over Jet's gentle persuasion. After several seconds of contemplation, he reached his conclusion.  
  
"Fine." he griped, deciding that it was better to take up the chase than to be put off the ship. "But I'd like to know how you intend to find him. So far all we know is that he was last seen in Eastern Europe, so unless you have a really detailed road map, we're stuck."  
  
Jet adopted a pensive expression, denoting the fact that Spike had a valid point. At that moment a thick tangle of bright red hair burst up from behind the couch, with the rest of Ed's gangly body not far behind. With computer in hand, and her goggles hung about her neck, she performed a single pirouette and then thrust the console out towards the surprised throng of bounty hunters.  
  
"Information is served." she announced in a feigned haughty tone.  
  
Spike moaned softly.  
  
"Et tu, Ed?" he mumbled.  
  
"Nice going, Ed." Jet smiled, and then threw a stern glance Spike's way. "At least someone around here is doing their job."  
  
Spike didn't rise to the bait.  
  
"So, what have you got Ed?" Faye enquired eagerly.  
  
Upon hearing this question, Edward raised the screen of her computer and pulled the pin of her goggles from the port in its side. The removal of the hardware caused the screen to be activated, and a glowing display packed with potentially profitable information leapt to attention with an eager fizz. It comprised a single poorly focused picture of two pit fighters plying their trade, flanked by a column of text that was prominently headed by the title 'War In Warsaw'.  
  
Without allowing her colleagues a chance to assimilate the information for themselves, Faye leapt knees first onto the couch, moved her face to within six inches of the screen, and began to read out loud the most relevant information.  
  
"Tonight's big fight will be staged live at the Dudek warehouse complex in the ruins of Old Warsaw. . ." she read, trailing off into a mumble as she skipped through some of the less useful information. ". . . will feature legendary fighter Stainless Steele in his penultimate . . . defence of the B.R.A title. . . B.R.A?"  
  
"Blue Rat Alliance." Spike and Jet said in unison.  
  
The two then looked at each other.  
  
"Please, after you." Spike said, gesturing for Jet to continue.  
  
Jet turned back to Faye, and accepted Spike's invitation.  
  
"The Blue Rat Alliance is an Earth based syndicate group." he explained. "It's made up of a number of smaller clans that came together when they realised that they couldn't survive on their own in competition with the other, larger off-world syndicates."  
  
"I see." Faye responded in a tone of mock interest.  
  
She then continued to read the article.  
  
"Hey." she said, finally surfacing after several moments of diligent study. "It says here that Steele used to work for the Red Dragons on Mars."  
  
"Yeah, so?" Jet replied.  
  
"Well, isn't swapping sides like one of the worst things a syndicate member can do?" Faye asked. "I mean, didn't anyone go after him?"  
  
Spike looked away subtly as he was consumed by a pang of regret. Faye's perfectly innocent inquiry had stirred up briefly memories of a past life that no amount of bad whisky could persuade him to divulge. Quickly, he quelled his emotions. That life was gone; bled to death in some filthy alley on Mars.  
  
"Yeah, they would have if he were a regular syndicate member." Jet answered. "But pit fighters aren't like your standard issue thugs and gangsters. They have contracts to the syndicates that can be bought and sold, just like a regular sports star."  
  
"And these Blue Rat people 'bought' Stainless Steele from the Red Dragons." Faye surmised. "I guess that owning him would be the only way to get him to fight to the death every week."  
  
"Not so." Jet corrected Faye once more. "Pit fighters, the ones that survive a while at least, get treated like kings by their employers. These fellas can make a mob boss very rich if they're good enough. Isn't that right, Spike?"  
  
"Hmm?" Spike droned distantly as he was torn from his introspection.  
  
"Isn't it true that pit fighters are well treated within the syndicates?" Jet repeated his question, only this time in more detail.  
  
Spike's eyes narrowed with suspicion as he beheld his partner.  
  
"Why are you asking me?" he enquired, cautiously.  
  
Jet gave another mischievous smirk.  
  
"Well, I just thought you ought to know since you wanted to follow in your hero's footsteps when you were a kid." he remarked.  
  
"This is getting really old, really fast, Jet." Spike sighed wearily. "Can we just drop it now?"  
  
But there was to be no such luck. Faye turned round and sat back down on the couch.  
  
"Aaww, does Spikey wanna grow up to be a big strong pit fighter?" she jested, smiling broadly.  
  
"Drop it, Faye. I mean it." Spike warned, before turning his attention to Jet. "And I never said I wanted to be a pit fighter. All I said was that Steele was one of the things that inspired me into the martial arts."  
  
"Yeah." Jet conceded. "I never did understand that. I mean the stuff you do is so skilful and precise. All Steele ever did was pulverise his opponents with those metal knuckles of his."  
  
"That's not the point." Spike said. "Fighting is a fine art, like painting. There are lots of different styles of both, each just as valid as the others. Steele's style may not be pretty, but it's effective."  
  
"Woah woah woah." Faye intervened. "No one said anything about metal knuckles."  
  
"Actually, it's not just his knuckles." Spike informed her. "All the bones below his elbows are made of spacecraft-grade titanium alloy. In fact, all pit fighters have some kind of artificial body part or parts to enhance their fighting. It makes things a bit more interesting. Why, is that going to be a problem for you?"  
  
Faye met Spike's awkward smirk with a laboured look of nonchalance.  
  
"Not at all." she replied. "I just want to make sure I have all the info I need before we go charging in. No point in taking any unnecessary risks."  
  
Spike's smirk broadened into a wry smile.  
  
"Since when were you worried about taking risks?" he asked, ironically.  
  
Faye huffed disdainfully and dismounted the couch. At this point, Ed, who was now frustratingly no longer the centre of attention, bounded over the back of the couch and dropped down cross-legged where Faye had been kneeling. Turning Tomato to face her she announced loudly,  
  
"Event takes place at 9pm EET! Be there or be a two dimensional quadrilateral of equal sides and vertices."  
  
Faye momentarily forgot her chagrin with Spike, and glanced over her shoulder at Edward.  
  
"Since when could Ed speak Chinese?" she asked, bemused.  
  
Ed was the centre of attention once more. Mission accomplished.  
  
"Hmm, nine o'clock, eh?" Jet mused. "Good. That gives us some time to get ready. Or, should I say, that gives Spike and Faye time to get ready."  
  
"What?!" Faye and Spike's laments rang out in unison.  
  
It was Faye who landed the second blow.  
  
"Why don't you go?" she complained to Jet. "The last thing I need is to spend any more time bottled up with him."  
  
She then flicked her head toward Spike.  
  
"Hey. Ex-ISSP, remember?" Jet said, shrugging as if to signify that the matter was out of his hands. "I must have broken up a hundred of these things back on Ganymede. It wouldn't do any good if I were recognised, now would it? Spike was a regular back on Mars, and the chances are no one will know you."  
  
Faye sighed in resignation.  
  
"Fine." she conceded, and then turned her back on her colleagues. "I guess the only thing to decide now is what to wear."  
  
With Faye's back now turned, Spike saw his opportunity. Quickly and stealthily, he hopped out of his seat, rounded the table, and planted his backside into the couch next to Ed.  
  
"Why do you need to change?" Jet enquired.  
  
"It's a fight." Was Faye's reply. "Everyone gets dressed up when they go to the fight, right?"  
  
"I don't know if getting dressed up is a good idea." Spike spoke up. "Remember what happened the last time you got dressed up. What was it again? The opera?"  
  
Faye turned to face Spike, and placed one hand her hip.  
  
"All the more reason for me to wear something nice." she informed him. "Every girl deserves a glamorous night out where she doesn't get kidnapped by a deranged gangster."  
  
"Still, I think you should reconsider." Jet advised. "These things can get pretty messy."  
  
"He's right." Spike agreed. "You wouldn't want to get your pretty frock all mussed up."  
  
"Excuse me, but I have been to boxing matches before." Faye replied dryly. "I can deal with a little blood and sweat. I mean, I hang out with you guys don't I?"  
  
Spike opened his mouth to continue the argument, but then had a sudden change of heart.  
  
"You know what, Faye?" he said. "You do whatever makes you happy."  
  
Faye leaned back slightly, adopting an expression of mild surprise.  
  
"Why, thank you Spike." she said. "It's nice to see that you're making an effort to improve your attitude. "  
  
Faye then turned away once more, raised her hand to her chin and began to stroke it pensively.  
  
"Now, I'm probably going to need to touch-up my make up as well. . ." she thought out loud. "My purse. Where did I put my purse. . ?"  
  
"You have a purse?" Jet asked in a surprised tone of voice.  
  
"Yes, I have a purse." Faye replied. "Every woman needs somewhere to keep her essentials."  
  
"O-o-oh." Jet said, having been enlightened. "You mean the stuff you use to cheat at card games."  
  
"Yes the. . . hey!" Faye exclaimed betraying her offence at this accusation, notwithstanding the fact that it was true.  
  
Meanwhile, Spike had been shifting about uncomfortably in his seat. Something had been prodding him in the lower back, and it was beginning to make him regret have re-conquered his old territory. Reaching behind his back, he forced his hand into the crevice between the upholstery and grabbed the anonymous object responsible. With a single tug, he plucked from its snug hiding place and brought before himself.  
  
The object was a small, yellow, leather purse. The mouth of the purse was reinforced by a metal rim, and was held shut by a protruding clasp. This was doubtless what had been causing Spike such discomfort.  
  
With that mystery solved, Spike was overtaken by curiosity once again.  
  
"What have we here. . ?" he uttered as he forced the bag open indelicately.  
  
This utterance attracted Faye's attention.  
  
"Hey!" she barked upon seeing that her personal belongings were being violated. . . again.  
  
She lunged towards Spike, narrowly missing a collision with Ed who, with a startled yelp, drew her precious computer in to her chest protectively. However, Faye's progress was halted as Spike, without looking up, thrust out a lanky leg and pressed the sole of his foot against her exposed midriff. There she was held at bay as Spike continued his rummaging.  
  
"Hmm. This is interesting." he commented, unfazed by Faye's flailing arms.  
  
"Hey, Spike." Jet called amusedly. "Is there any money in there? She hasn't been holding out on us has she?"  
  
"Ooooh! Treasure hunt!" Ed squealed in excitement, and leaned over to peer into the purse for herself. "X marks the spot, cap'n. Aaarrr!"  
  
" 'At a girl, Ed." Jet chuckled. "You be sure to tell us if you find any pieces of eight, or precious gems. You know what they say: Diamonds are a girl's best friend."  
  
"Batteries is more like it." Spike commented.  
  
Faye gasped in mortification, and momentarily ceased her struggle. Then, with her will galvanised by her building rage, she swept Spike's leg aside with her forearm and in a single, fluid motion, grabbed the purse with her right hand and punched Spike squarely in the jaw with her left.  
  
Spike reeled to his left under the force of the impact, almost toppling off the sofa.  
  
Faye pulled away from him, and turned away in disgust. She then stormed past Jet without a word, and on out of the room.  
  
Spike righted himself, and began to rub his throbbing jaw.  
  
"You alright, Spike?" Jet asked, the amusement still evident in his voice.  
  
"Yeah." Spike replied, sounding slightly amused himself. "She hits like our last bounty head."  
  
Faye's angry footsteps were still thundering from down the hallway as she quick marched away from the scene of her humiliation. There was then a pause in the wrathful drumming, and then a more temperate beat took its place. Slowly, it grew louder and louder as its source drew closer to the door. Just as it seemed that the sound was upon the remaining bounty hunters, it ceased.  
  
"Spike?" Faye called gingerly, without showing her face.  
  
"Yes, Faye." Spike replied.  
  
"Will there be any betting?" 


	3. Fly Away From Here

3) Fly Away From Here  
  
Spike leaned up against the hard, metal body of the Swordfish and stared out of the open hangar to the world beyond. Night was closing in quickly. The air in the hangar had cooled noticeably in the time he had been waiting, and the soft lapping of the calm waters could be heard as they gently licked the hull of the Bebop. The ship itself was rocking slightly, its weary hull purring with pleasure at the cool caress of the water. At the horizon, a narrow section of sky was rendered in a deep pink, which was blended at its edge with a band of purple, followed by deep blue, and finally pitch black as the last of the sun's light ran from the firmament like wet water colours.  
  
Spike rubbed his forehead with his left hand. He wasn't used to the high oxygen content of the air here, having known only the ship's processed atmosphere, and first and second hand cigarette smoke for much of the past couple of months. As a result, he was feeling a little light headed, even nauseous. Add to that a touch of agoraphobia, brought on by weeks spent in a confined space, and one was left with a bounty hunter that was not too keen on venturing forth into the great wide world.  
  
Closing his eyes, and pinching the bridge of his nose, Spike muttered to himself,  
  
"I really don't feel like this."  
  
"You say something?" a familiar voice came.  
  
Spike looked up, and glanced over his shoulder. There he saw Jet clambering down from the cockpit of the Redtail. He had just finished prepping Faye's ship for take-off, something that she herself had neglected to do. The Redtail was now queuing patiently behind the Swordfish, ready to take flight.  
  
"Who, me?" Spike replied evenly. "I didn't say anything."  
  
"Well that's weird," Jet said as his boots struck the floor. "because I could have sworn I heard something."  
  
Spike turned and looked back out to sea.  
  
"Must've been the wind." he said.  
  
Jet murmured contemplatively, then began to approach Spike.  
  
"So, is the Swordfish ready to go?" he asked.  
  
"It's been ready to go for an hour and a half." Grumbled Spike. "And I've been ready for a half hour more."  
  
Jet sighed, and ran the cool palm of his prosthetic hand across the top of his head.  
  
"She said she'd be ready in an hour." he said.  
  
"That was two hours ago." Spike muttered. "That woman needs more maintenance time than a whole fleet of star ships."  
  
Jet looked up at the Swordfish, which was stood at his side displaying somewhat more patience than its pilot.  
  
"Well that's women for you." he mused. "If they spent half as much time working as they do pampering themselves then us guys would really be in trouble."  
  
"You said it." Spike concurred.  
  
"Said what?" there came a third voice.  
  
Both men looked back over their respective shoulders. There, in the doorway at the top of the stairs, was stood Faye. She was dressed in a figure hugging, angle length dress sewn from lustrous black velvet. The neckline plunged so low that the garment was on the cusp of falling in half, and a slit down the left side revealed more leg than was legal in some parts of the solar system.  
  
The three exchanged stares in silence for a few seconds. Faye took the quiet response as a compliment.  
  
"Ah, you like?" she said, gently prodding at her hair bun. "I picked it up on our last trip to Ganymede."  
  
"Not bad." Spike said, finally tearing his gaze away from Faye. "Pretty appropriate I'd say."  
  
"Really? You think?" Faye said, surprised at Spike's approval.  
  
"Yeah," Spike said. "because there's not enough of that dress to wreck."  
  
Faye mumbled a profanity under her breath. She then gathered herself, and began to stride elegantly across the metal gangway and on down the stairs, her heels striking out a regular beat as she went.  
  
Jet, who had yet to pull his eyes from Faye, had instead put his efforts into generating an angry cast.  
  
"You know, you didn't have to rush on our account." he said ironically.  
  
"I know." Faye replied.  
  
Jet grumbled under his breath and turned back to the Redtail just as Faye's leading foot met with the floor of the hangar.  
  
"The Redtail is ready to go." he informed her. "You should try and get ready a little quicker next time, because I'm not doing this for you again."  
  
"That's what you said the last time." Mumbled Spike.  
  
Almost instantly, Spike could sense Jet's piercing glare drilling a hole in his back.  
  
"Yeah, yeah." Faye replied to Jet as she began to make her way into the cockpit of her craft; a task made all the more difficult by the close fitting nature of her dress.  
  
Jet sighed deeply. He seemed to get almost no respect from his colleagues, even though he was the most senior of the ships five inhabitants.  
  
Spike took Faye's climbing aboard the Redtail as his cue to mount his own steed. Looking away from the weakly lit horizon, he began to hoist himself up the ladder that was leaned against the Swordfish. As he did so he stole a glance across at Faye, who was now trying to manoeuvre her closely wrapped person into the close quarters of her ship. He smiled slightly to himself, and then continued up the ladder. Faye might have been a pain in the ass, but even Spike had to admit she was a very attractive pain in the ass.  
  
"I knew there was a reason we kept her around." he said to himself.  
  
Reaching the top of the ladder, Spike put his hands against the hull, swung his legs over the side and dropped deftly into the pilot's position. Briefly he surveyed the plethora of displays and controls that were sprawled across the console before him. Quickly surmising that everything was in order, he reached out with his right index finger and depressed a solitary, yellow button that stood alone at the right hand side of the dash. No sooner had the button sprung back out of its housing, a mechanical whirring reverberated through the hull as the tinted, translucent shell of the pilot's pod began to close over the cockpit. There was then a loud thump, followed by a brief hiss as the lid closed and an air seal was established.  
  
Spike sat back, and looked down at the floor beside him. There lay a pair of tan driving gloves, looking rather the worse for their considerable wear. Spike reached down and plucked them from their resting place. Just as he had begun pulling the first glove over his right hand, a shrill beeping arose from the console. Reaching out with his still naked left hand, he prodded a flashing red icon on the screen at the centre of the dash. This caused a window, with Jet's stern face framed within, to leap into the foreground.  
  
"Are you two all set?" Jet's voice came over the speaker.  
  
Within a moment of this question being asked, a small inset appeared at the top right corner of the window, which contained Faye's likeness.  
  
"Ready when you are." Faye replied.  
  
"Ditto." Spike added.  
  
"Okay." Jet acknowledged. "Now, you both remember the plan, right?"  
  
Faye sighed and rolled her eyes.  
  
"Yes, we remember the plan, Jet." she said. "We watch the fight then go backstage afterwards and catch Steele while he's still tired. It's not exactly rocket science."  
  
"Alright, alright." Jet placated. "It's just real important that we don't screw this one up."  
  
"You know, I still don't think this is a good idea." Spike intervened. "If this fight is anything like the ones I used to watch, then Stainless won't even break a sweat, let alone get tired."  
  
"Yes, Spike, we all know what *you* think." Faye sniped. "All you've done is complain ever since we decided to chase this one up."  
  
"I'm only complaining because I'm right." Spike protested.  
  
"Well, Right or not, we still need to take in this bounty." said Jet. "That's unless you were planning to settle down on Earth."  
  
Spike groaned, as he was defeated once again; something that was made all the more difficult to swallow by Faye's gloating expression. Reaching out for the screen once more, he tapped on a sequence of icons, causing the inset that contained Faye's likeness to rapidly reduce in size before vanishing all together.  
  
"Hey!" Faye barked over the speaker as her visual link with the Swordfish was cut. "Oh, that's real mature, Spike."  
  
"Cut it out you two." Jet commanded. "Now listen up. The Dudek warehouses are in the Eastern quarter of old Warsaw. Just look out for the. . . ships . . . in . . ."  
  
The last of Jet's sentenced was lost as the both the audio and visual feeds were consumed by interference. Spike looked on in puzzlement as a rolling grey snow occupied his display. It appeared that the ships communications were acting up again. In response to this, Spike raised his right hand and drove his palm down upon the top of the console. The display blinked and shuddered as Spike repeatedly applied a healing hand to the ailing system.  
  
Just as he was about to strike the console for the half-dozenth time, the snow that had filled the comm. window began to clear. The grey haze dissipated slowly, revealing a set of large, amber eyes. The eyes stared at Spike intently for several seconds. They then blinked twice, and pulled away rapidly from the screen.  
  
"Faye-Faye!" Ed cried out as her whole face became visible in the window.  
  
Apparently, she had no interest in speaking to Spike, not that this worried Spike a great deal.  
  
Faye sighed loudly, which allowed Spike to hear her displeasure clearly over the speaker.  
  
"What is it, Ed?" she asked.  
  
"Faye-Faye," Ed began, making the biggest, saddest eyes she could. "can Edward play with Faye-Faye's toy while Faye-Faye is away?"  
  
"No, Ed!" Faye replied angrily.  
  
Spike smirked with amusement. He hadn't realised that Faye was still being made to pay for his antics of earlier on.  
  
"Awww, please Faye-Faye." Ed begged. "Ed won't break it. And besides, you're not using it."  
  
Spike closed his eyes and shook his head. This was getting funnier by the second.  
  
"Ed, I said no." Faye stated. "And I already told you, it's not a toy."  
  
"But it must be." Ed argued. "It has batteries and everything."  
  
"Well it's not." said Faye.  
  
Ed's expression of longing transformed to one of bemusement in a time that would put a schizophrenic to shame. Scratching her head, she asked,  
  
"Well, if it's not a toy, then what is it?"  
  
Spike's ears pricked up. He just had to hear Faye's response to this.  
  
"Erm. . ." Faye floundered. "It's. . . it's. . . it's a donut warmer!"  
  
In a moment of weakness, Spike let slip the slightest of chuckles. This was greeted by a pause in the conversation. Then Faye spoke.  
  
"Spike? Spike, are you still there?"  
  
"No." Spike replied.  
  
Before Faye could chastise Spike further, a grainy, distinctly irate voice became audible over the speakers.  
  
"Ed!" Jet barked. "How many times do I have to tell you not to hack into the communications system?"  
  
Ed grinned as only she could.  
  
"Four hundred and thirty eight?" she hazarded.  
  
"Ed, get off the line!" roared Jet.  
  
"Ed is sorry." Ed cried out in typically overdramatic fashion. "Please, forgive me, for I know not what I do!"  
  
And with that, Ed's unnaturally pliable face disappeared from the communication window. There was a brief intermission filled with dancing lines of static before Jet's weary face reappeared.  
  
"You should consider yourselves lucky that you get to leave for a while." he confided in his two adult colleagues. "Now, what was I saying?"  
  
"You were about to tell us where we're going, for the thousandth time." Faye grumbled.  
  
"Oh, right." said Jet as his memory was refreshed. "Just head for the East side of town and keep an eye out for a lot of ships 'n' cars. These events are pretty popular and usually pull in a big crowd."  
  
"Great." Faye said. "Can we go now?"  
  
"Yeah, get outta here." Jet sighed.  
  
With that, another loud thump resonated through the hull of the Swordfish as the docking clamps were released. The ship then began to shudder as it lurched forwards on its landing gears.  
  
Spike made one last cursory check of the various readouts, then leaned forwards and grasped firmly the throttle handles. Glancing down at the screen, he granted his morose looking partner a half-smile.  
  
"Catch you later, Jet." he said.  
  
Jet grunted his acknowledgement, and cut the transmission.  
  
Spike looked up and cast his gaze forwards. Beyond the yellow tinged glass of the cockpit, he could see the now completely darkened sky, which was separated from the calm seas by an immeasurably thin red line. The darkness was strewn with miniscule shards of starlight, and the small waves that travelled silently across the waters' surface glittered in the mournful glare of the moon as the day went to its death with a quiet dignity. The scene, framed by the doorway of the hangar, was soothing indeed.  
  
Maybe a little trip out wouldn't be so bad after all.  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Faye looked away from the console's various readouts, and peered down and to her right. Looking through the tinted class bubble of the Redtail's cockpit, she scanned the ground below. Or at least, she was fairly sure it was the ground. The fact was it was too dark to tell.  
  
In the past couple of hours Faye and Spike had covered a lot of ground, so much in fact, that they had long since left behind the illuminating glow of the moon. Now all she had to distinguish between the Earth and the heavens was the milk-white starlight that soaked the sky, and which gave way to a complete darkness as it spilled over the horizon. Occasionally, the odd source of artificial light would streak past beneath her. However, at the speed she was going, Faye had no way to tell whether it was a house, or a boat, or something else entirely.  
  
Faye sighed wearily, and looked up and out the front of the soundproofed pod. About a hundred meters ahead, and a few meters the left, she could see the brilliant glare of the Swordfish's engine. The flawless white glow accentuated the ship's sleek, ruby-red contours as it cruised silently and unswervingly through the night sky.  
  
Since the instant that they had departed the Bebop, Spike had led the way. Of course, Faye was quite content to allow her travelling companion to ride shotgun, as it saved her the chore of having to navigate for herself. The two had flown in near single file for some hours, maintaining a complete communications silence. Not that this silence had been part of the plan. It was just that, after Spike's behaviour of earlier that day, Faye simply didn't have anything to say to him. That is, nothing that she would care to say over a comm. signal that a child, i.e. Ed, could be listening in on.  
  
Just as Faye was resigning herself to yet another hour of uneventful travel, she detected a faint vibration travelling through the hull of her ship. She cocked an eyebrow quizzically as the resonance became gradually more intense, causing the Redtail's more loosely applied components to rattle about at their stations.  
  
In an instant, the Redtail began shake and reel violently as the source of the disturbance thundered past at supersonic speed. Three blinding flashes of light filled the cockpit one after the other as a trio of blurred forms streaked past the ship, catching the little craft in their turbulent wake.  
  
Scarcely able to keep her rear in her seat, Faye fought to regain control of the ship. Frantically she flicked switches and pounded buttons as she struggled to subdue the bucking Redtail. Finally, after several seconds of panicked, almost random kicks from the manoeuvring thrusters, Faye managed to calm her steed.  
  
Breathing a sigh of relief, she peered through the window once more. In the distance, she could see three bright points of light moving subtly against the backdrop of stars, distinguishable from the throng of celestial bodies only by their motion. Slowly, the distant trio of false stars faded from view.  
  
"Assholes!" Faye snapped at the receding ships.  
  
She then hoisted the displaced left shoulder strap of her dress back into position and began to feel around the back of her head to ensure that her hairdo was still intact. As she did so, a shrill beeping filled the cockpit. Glancing down she saw a small, red, circular icon flashing urgently at the lower right-hand corner of the screen on her console.  
  
"What now?" she sighed, and then struck the icon with a little more force than was necessary.  
  
A window, about half the size of the screen, flashed up containing Spike's expressionless face.  
  
"Oh, it's you." Faye droned.  
  
"Nice to see you, too." Spike replied. "You still alive back there?"  
  
"Just about." Faye said, finishing off the adjustments to her coiffure.  
  
It was then that she noticed that Spike did not look at all flustered by the close flyby, which he too must surely have felt. But then, a little brush with death was rarely enough to perturb Spike. It was typical. Put him in a room full of armed syndicate flunkies with nothing but a wet bean shoot to defend himself and he wouldn't break a sweat. But, if you were to take his favourite chair. . .  
  
"Don't tell me you didn't see that coming." said Spike.  
  
"What am I, a clairvoyant?" Faye rasped. "No, I didn't see that coming. A heads up would have been nice."  
  
"Or, you could have just checked your radar." Spike retorted.  
  
And he was right. Faye glanced across to the circular, green display set into the dash just to the right of the screen. Sure enough there were three bright green dots, locked in tight formation, heading slowly towards the uppermost boundary of the display.  
  
"You should pay a little more attention, Faye." Spike said smugly. "'Vigilant eyes make for safer skies.'"  
  
"Shut up, Spike." Faye replied, betraying her embarrassment. "Listen. Are we there yet, because this whole road-trip thing is wearing a little thin."  
  
Spike dropped the smug smirk, and glanced at his own radar screen.  
  
"Well, those ships are moving pretty fast." he mused.  
  
"And?" Faye asked impatiently.  
  
"Ships that quick don't come cheap." Spike continued. "Not many people on Earth would be able afford them save ranking syndicate members."  
  
"So we can't be far then, right?" Faye speculated.  
  
Spike shrugged.  
  
"Less than an hour, give or take."  
  
"Yeah, well we'd better get there soon." Faye informed him. "The event started over an hour ago."  
  
"Don't worry." Spike reassured her. "Stainless Steele is a main event fighter. He won't be up until the very end of the night. I reckon we still have a couple of hours to work with."  
  
"Still, I'd feel better if we could go a little faster." Faye complained.  
  
"Feel free." said Spike. "But if you don't want to run out of fuel and fall out of the sky then I suggest you take it easy."  
  
Faye scowled. Their chronic fuel shortage had once again come round to bite them in the behind.  
  
"Call me when we get there." she growled, and then summarily cut the transmission.  
  
Looking out the window, Faye glared scornfully at the rear of the Swordfish. The ship was still holding a perfectly steady course, its engines still putting out an unwavering blue-white glare. Its blasé manner, like that of its pilot, seemed to gloat at her from across the blackened sky.  
  
"What are you looking at?" she snarled.  
  
Faye then looked away from the Swordfish, and stole a discrete glance at her radar screen.  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
There was a loud thump as the Swordfish dropped to the ground, followed by a grinding of metal on metal as the ship sank slightly into its suspension. Spike released the left handlebar, and flicked a pair of switches on the left of the dash into the up position. This relieved the manoeuvring thrusters of duty, and allowed the ship to relax lazily into its landing gears. Releasing the throttle, he cut the engines and granted the Swordfish some well-earned rest.  
  
Spike leaned away from the controls, and stretched out his stiffened back. The Swordfish was a mono-racer, a sprinter that was not built for the long haul. This was something that was all too obvious to Spike, who had just spent the best part of three hours hunched over the ship's controls.  
  
Clasping his hands above his head, Spike cracked his knuckles and yawned loudly. He then lowered his arms and set about removing the driving gloves from his hands. As he did so, he looked out through the glass bubble that surrounded him. It was too dark for any details of his surroundings to be apparent, but he could see the flakes of snow that had only just begun to drift to earth. The tiny fragments of heaven settled silently against the translucent dome, then quickly melted away in the warmth the ship was exuding.  
  
As Faye had asked, Spike had informed her of their arrival at the site of the event, a derelict warehouse complex in a particularly rundown area of Warsaw. As such, it was likely that she was only moments behind him in landing her ship. He had toyed with the idea of trying to loose Faye in the night skies over Poland, but had thought better of it. He was damned if he was going to do all the work himself.  
  
Dropping the gloves to the floor, Spike reached out and hit the solitary yellow button, which glowed sombrely in the dim lit light of the cockpit. There was a thump and a hiss as the pressure seal was released and the air seal lost. At that moment, the cockpit was flooded by a torrent of freezing cold air.  
  
"Shit." Spike hissed. "I should have put on a sweater."  
  
The dome was drawn back, and the full extent of the frigid conditions came to bear.  
  
"Shit." Spike repeated, his word crystallising in the cold air. "I should have put on three sweaters."  
  
Without further complaint, Spike stood up from the pilot position and placed his hands on the still warm exterior of the ship. He lingered for a moment, allowing the fading warmth to enter his hands and climb up his shivering arms, and then hauled himself out of the cockpit and began to make his way down the set of rungs that were bolted the flank of the Swordfish.  
  
Reaching the last rung, Spike allowed himself to drop the last few feet to the ground. His feet met the thin layer of fresh snow with a satisfying crunch. Then, reaching into his jacket, he removed a small rectangular handset that housed a few well-worn buttons. He pointed the aerial that topped the set directly at the Swordfish and depressed a large, garishly lit red button. This resulted first in the grinding of more anonymous mechanisms, and ultimately in the pod doors closing over. This was followed by a series of three beeps as the ship informed Spike that its security system had been activated.  
  
Turning away, Spike surveyed his surroundings. He had set down in the midst of the warehouse complex, in a clear area that perhaps had once been a car park. The spotlights on the underbelly of the Swordfish were still emitting a sharp, downwardly directed light, the glare from which was reflecting from the snow and illuminating the area in an eerie, ethereal glow. All around, large, damaged buildings were sprawled out in the snow like discarded and rotting corpses, their shattered windows staring lifelessly into oblivion. This chilling scene was scored by the mournful howl of the wind as it meandered restlessly amid the carnage.  
  
There were, however, some signs of life. Nearby were parked a couple of other ships. Each of the ships were of a sporty design, and likely much too pricey for the run-of-the-mill Earthling plebeians. As such, Spike felt sure he had the right place.  
  
Spike's attention was caught by a sound emanating from the darkness. It was an intermittent, unsteady hissing that was coming from beyond the decaying buildings that lay behind him. He turned in time to see the relatively well- lit Redtail as it emerged from behind one of the warehouses, drawing out a strangely erratic course. The shipped weaved around as its thrusters cut in and out at random, making very slow progress to towards where Spike was standing. Finally it halted, hovered unsteadily about five meters from the ground, and drew in armaments as it prepared to land, like a boxer bracing for an opponents blow.  
  
There was then a loud whine as if the ship was crying out in pain, and the Redtail descended just a little too quickly to the ground. A deafening thud, and the metallic rattling of its jarred components, heralded the Redtail's landing. Its engines cut out with a final, unhealthy cough, and the lament of the freezing wind filled the area once more.  
  
Spike could just about see Faye through the tinted glass pod of the Redtail, which had come to rest ten meters away. Though he couldn't make out her face through the glass, her body language as she prepared to disembark spoke volumes for her mood.  
  
The door of the pilot pod reared up with an angry hiss and Faye emerged. Clambering down to the ground, she slipped about momentarily on the fine snow, then regained her footing and thumped a control panel on the side of the Redtail. There was a mechanical whirring as the open door of the ship began shuddered in its hinges. Faye growled loudly, and pounded the panel several more times before the door finally began to close. The mechanism whined and moaned at its chore as it fought against its own temperature- warped components, but the door did eventually shut. Faye then began to storm towards Spike.  
  
"Having problems?" Spike enquired.  
  
"Every fucking system on that ship is frozen solid." Faye replied, almost slipping in the snow once again.  
  
Spike peered past Faye to the Redtail.  
  
"Sounds to me like your running short on anti-freeze." he said.  
  
"What?!" Faye barked upon reaching Spike. "But Jet said he'd prepped the Redtail himself."  
  
Spike turned in the direction he was intending to head, and slid his hands into his trouser pockets. As he glanced over his shoulder at Faye, the corner of his mouth turned up into an awkward smile.  
  
"Guess it must've slipped through the net."  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Jet sat back on the sitting-room couch with his legs stretched out in front of him and his left arm draped across the top of the backrest. Sighing restfully, he examined the cylindrical glass container he held in his right hand. The container was capped at both ends by metal discs, and held about a litre and a half of viscous blue fluid.  
  
Jet swilled the liquid around in its jar. As he contemplated its laboured motions and the film that it left clinging to the glass, he smiled to himself.  
  
"Maybe next time she'll prep her *own* ship." 


	4. Sit Down

4) Sit Down  
  
Spike peered round the corner of the warehouse, the fifth one he had inspected so far. Carefully he looked about, hunting for any sign of the building in which the fights were taking place. Unfortunately, one building seemed to be pretty much the same as the next. For all he knew, he may have examined a couple of the edifices more than once.  
  
Stood behind Spike, hugging herself and shivering uncontrollably, was Faye. She was too concerned with her own ordeal to aid Spike in his search.  
  
"Have you found it yet?" Faye asked; her words wavering as her body convulsed in an effort to generate some heat.  
  
Spike groaned, and his face dropped. That question was all he had been hearing for the last twenty minutes.  
  
"Not yet, Faye." he replied. . . again.  
  
"Well hurry up." Faye said. "I think my nose is about to fall off."  
  
"I wish your mouth would fall off." Spike muttered.  
  
"What was that?" Faye snapped.  
  
Spike sighed, and hunched his shoulders.  
  
"I think we should try over there."  
  
He then began to trudge out into the open with a still quaking Faye in toe. The two emerged at a crossroads between four buildings. Just as they reached the heart of the junction, a loud beeping began to emanate from Spike's jacket. Spike sighed once more, reached into his inside pocket, and extracted a portable communicator. A red light atop the unit was blinking frantically. Spike depressed a button on the face of the communicator, activating a brightly backlit screen, which displayed a grainy image of Jet.  
  
"Jet." Spike greeted his colleague frostily.  
  
"Spike." Jet replied in kind. "You had any luck finding the fights yet?"  
  
"Not yet." said Spike.  
  
No sooner had Spike finished speaking Faye barged around him and forced her face in between his and the communicator.  
  
"Jet!" she exclaimed. "I thought you said you prepared the Redtail for take- off."  
  
"Yeah, so?" Jet replied innocuously.  
  
"So, why wasn't there any anti-freeze in the tanks?"  
  
Jet closed his eyes, and gave a slight smile.  
  
"Sorry, guess it must've slipped through the net." he said, shrugging. "You know what they say, if you want something done properly then you have to do it yourself."  
  
Faye scowled, and removed herself from Spike's line of sight.  
  
"Look, Jet." Spike began. "Do you have any clue as to exactly which building we're looking for?"  
  
"No, but I've got Ed working on it right now." Jet replied.  
  
Jet then winced at the sound of a high pitch scream coming from his end of the line.  
  
"Aaagghhh! No, no, no, no, no!"  
  
Jet glanced to his left, then back at Spike.  
  
"We're not having much luck either." he sighed.  
  
At that moment, Spike caught wind of a sound carrying from the other side of the crossroads. The sound was a dull clunk, like that of a large metal lock being undone. Spike looked up to see a large door in the wall of the alley before him being drawn open rapidly, allowing brilliant stream of light to bleed from the side one of the buildings. The light poured across the alleyway catching the gently tumbling flakes of snow in its glare, and illuminating the wall opposite.  
  
"Hold on Jet, we may just have had a change of luck." Spike informed his partner.  
  
A shadow began to rear up in the light projected against the wall of the alley. The silhouetted figure was large, and appeared much too big to be just a single person.  
  
"Out ya go!" Roared an anonymous voice.  
  
With that, an ill-defined mass hurtled from the doorway and out across the alleyway. The object struck the snow with a sickening thud, and tumbled across the ground before striking the opposite wall with what sounded like a grunt of pain.  
  
There was a loud slam as the door was closed once more, and the area was plunged back into darkness.  
  
"I think we've found our place." said Spike.  
  
"Finally." Faye lamented.  
  
She then barged past Spike and began to power walk towards the door.  
  
Spike looked back down at Jet.  
  
"Tell Ed to take five." he said.  
  
"Okay." Jet replied. "But I'll have her on standby. You might need info on some of the other characters you find in there."  
  
Spike gave a subtle nod.  
  
"Right. See you later."  
  
"I'll be in touch." said Jet.  
  
He then ended the transmission.  
  
Spike slipped the communicator back into his jacket and looked up. Faye had already reached the door in the side of the warehouse and looked ready to start knocking. Of course, being the more experienced of the two in such matters, Spike suspected that Faye's indelicate manner might get them both into trouble. As such, he hastily made his way over to the door.  
  
"I wouldn't be in such a hurry if I were you." Spike called.  
  
"Spike, I'm freezing my ass off here." Faye said indignantly. "I'm not staying out here for another second longer."  
  
"Okay, but at least try to be polite." Spike said upon reaching the door. "Syndicate doormen are notoriously bad tempered."  
  
"So what? He'll tell us we can't come in because we're not properly attired?"  
  
"Not quite." Spike said then gestured over his shoulder to where the mass that had just been ejected from the building was lying.  
  
The dim light that leaked from the gaps between the door and its frame fell upon what was now just identifiable as a human body. The figure was sprawled on its back, and did not appear to be breathing.  
  
"So, they threw out a drunk." said Faye. "It's pretty common you know."  
  
Spike looked straight into Faye's eyes.  
  
"Look again."  
  
As Faye peered down at the form, she began to see a dark patch of snow. The darkened area originated from beneath the body, and was expanding steadily as it was supplied by the reservoir of fluid that lay on top of it.  
  
A ship cruised past overhead, the roar of its engines filling the freezing night air for a fleeting moment before it raced off into the night. In the brief brush stroke of light that its blazing engines provided, the patch snow was painted a glistening crimson.  
  
"Like I said," Spike confided. "notoriously bad tempered."  
  
Faye's eyes lingered on the body for a few seconds before she looked back at Spike.  
  
"Alright." she conceded. "I'll try to be nice."  
  
She then raised a fist and rapped gently on the cold surface of the rusty iron door.  
  
"Hello, Mr doorman?" Faye called. "Can we come in please?"  
  
Spike sighed. If she didn't get him killed then she would almost certainly destroy his credibility.  
  
Faye withdrew her fist, and awaited a response. A few seconds elapsed, but there was no answer. Faye furrowed her brow and looked to Spike.  
  
"See where being nice gets you?" she said.  
  
She then turned back to the door and raised her fist once more. This time she drove the base of her fist against the door repeatedly with considerably more force than before. The blows resonated through the door like peeling of a bell as Faye vied for the attention of the occupants.  
  
"Let us in, damn it!" she yelled.  
  
What little allure this bounty had held for Faye seemed to have become icebound along with almost everything else in the immediate vicinity. Spike too was to feeling the biting cold, except he had not wanted to come here in the first place.  
  
"I knew this was going to be a bad idea." Spike complained to the backing of Faye's frustrated cries.  
  
Faye turned to him with a wrathful scowl,  
  
"Well you should have thought of that before you blew away all our fuel money, hotshot." she scolded.  
  
There was a loud clash of metal. Faye's eyes widened, and she and Spike both looked to the door as it was slowly drawn open, revealing a hulking figure standing across the doorway. The figure was a man, touching on seven feet in height, and wearing a black suit with a white, round-collared shirt. The immense doorman took a step forward, and glared down at the visitors with huge, black eyes set into a pale, stubbly face.  
  
"What do you want?" he thundered in a thick, Eastern European accent.  
  
Faye met the doorman's glare with a false smile.  
  
"Hi. We're here to see the fight." she informed him amiably.  
  
"Yes, I'm sure you are." The doorman replied, his chiselled features betraying little emotion. "What is the password?"  
  
"Password?" Faye echoed, then turned to Spike and said softly. "It's just one cliché after another with you syndicate people, isn't it."  
  
Spike shrugged.  
  
There was a thunderous growl, and Faye whipped round to look at the Doorman once more.  
  
"Right, the password." she said, smiling politely.  
  
Leaning over to Spike, she whispered out of the corner of her mouth,  
  
"A little help, Spike?"  
  
"I'm surprised at you, Faye." Spike said. "I thought you of all people would know the universal password."  
  
"The univ. . . oh, the universal password." Faye replied, her face sinking as she realised what he meant. "I don't suppose you could front the money for this one."  
  
"Sorry." Spike shrugged. "I'm not the one with the cash to blow on gambling."  
  
Faye muttered angrily, then grasped a small, black purse that hung low from her left shoulder. Opening it, she peered inside. She hardly had time to gasp with shock at the empty space she found within before she heard Spike's voice.  
  
"Here, buy something nice for the wife."  
  
Faye looked up to see Spike passing a small wad of bills into the doorman's dinner plate of a hand; the very wad she had just been searching for.  
  
"This password is a little shorter than the one's I'm used to." The doorman said, eying the cash in his hand.  
  
"I'm afraid that's my best guess." Spike replied.  
  
The doorman continued to look over the money. After some seconds of deep thought, he emerged with his answer.  
  
"Very well." he said. "I suppose it can't do any harm since you've missed most of the event anyway. And Nadia has been pestering me for a new dinner service."  
  
The doorman smiled with a large set of rather yellowed teeth. Slipping the money into his jacket, the great barrier of a man stepped to one side.  
  
"Please, enjoy the rest of your evening." he said as Spike and Faye walked by.  
  
"Thanks." said Spike.  
  
Faye did not respond. She was still trying to ascertain how Spike was able to relieve of her cash without her knowledge. It was an act worthy of her own considerable skills.  
  
Beyond the door lay a short stretch of corridor. The area was lit by a series of bar lights on the ceiling, and the walls on each side were lined with doors. The corridor culminated in a single large double door from behind which were emanating the cries and general murmurings of a sizeable crowd.  
  
Faye glanced from side to side at the various doors that she was passing. She then turned around, and posed a question to the doorman.  
  
"Excuse me, but could you point us in the direction of the executive boxes?"  
  
The doorman, who was in the process of locking up the door, turned and looked back at Faye in bemusement. This prolonged stare made Faye a little nervous.  
  
Suddenly a wide smile spread across the doorman's face, and he began to laugh uproariously. His bass laughter echoed from the walls of the corridor for some time before he was finally able to get his amusement under control. He then looked to Spike.  
  
"Your girlfriend, she is quite the funny one." he chortled.  
  
Spike and Faye replied, respectively and in unison,  
  
"She's not my girlfriend."  
  
"I'm not his girlfriend."  
  
"Yes, yes, of course. The stands are through there." The doorman said, pointing to the double doors.  
  
He then turned away and returned to his guard duty, still chuckling to himself,  
  
"Executive boxes indeed."  
  
Faye stepped up alongside Spike, and the two began to walk towards the double doors.  
  
"This is your fault, you know." Faye muttered, still sore from the laughing at she had just received.  
  
"What's my fault?" Spike asked.  
  
"It's your fault we can't get good seats. Why couldn't you at least make an effort to be well turned out?"  
  
"Faye, this is a pit fight. There *are* no good seats. And besides, you're the one who's overdressed."  
  
Faye scowled, and looked away from Spike.  
  
"There are tramps who would look overdressed next to you." she said.  
  
"You said it, not me." Spike replied.  
  
--- ---- ----  
  
Jet sighed deeply, and glanced at the time index on the communicator that lay on the table before him. It was early morning, and he had still yet to get any sleep. The main reason for his insomnia was his fretting over the success of the bounty hunt upon which Faye and Spike had embarked. The fact was the early signs did not bode well.  
  
Jet was still sat on the couch. He hadn't moved from there in over two hours. It wasn't that he didn't want to move, but rather that he couldn't. Earlier that evening, he had made the mistake of lamenting his sleep problem to Ed. Of course Ed, in typical childlike fashion, had then claimed that she too could not sleep in what was a blatant attempt to flout her bedtime.  
  
A bounty hunter with a bedtime; Jet still couldn't get over that.  
  
Anyway, he, Ed and Ein had all been holding a late night vigil, awaiting news of the chase from Faye and Spike. Of course, rumours of Ed's insomnia were greatly exaggerated. Now Jet had Ed asleep with her head on one lap, and Ein asleep with his head on the other. They had been like that for almost an hour now, and what made things worse was that both were drooling uncontrollably.  
  
Jet sighed once again, and his thoughts returned to Spike and Faye.  
  
"I'll bet they're having the time of their lives right about now." he said.  
  
--- --- --- --  
  
Spike and Faye each placed a hand against opposite sides of the double door and pushed it aside. Upon crossing the threshold, there was a noticeable change in the atmosphere as the relatively cool, clean air of the corridor gave way to a warm, humid, smoky environment. The immediate area was dark, and filled with the barking and chattering of a seated crowd whose attention was loosely centred upon a well-lit circular area that lay at the foot of the steeply inclined stands.  
  
"You really know the right places to take a girl, Spike." Faye sighed at the sight of the distinctly modest facilities.  
  
Spike wasn't listening. Taking a step into the arena he released his half of the door, allowing it to swing closed behind him, and slowly took in a sweeping view of his surroundings. Before him there lay a heaving sea of spectators, the heads of each bobbed and ducked like small waves as they attempted to optimise their view. The seascape was shrouded in a thick fog of smoke, which grew steadily more dense with increasing altitude, completely obscuring everything beyond the brightly lit ring below. Spike gave a slight smile as he drew in a breath of the painfully polluted air.  
  
"I've missed this." he uttered.  
  
He then strode forward the few paces to the head of the narrow stairway that ran between the seating and began to descend it.  
  
Faye trotted up behind him,  
  
"Hey, wait up."  
  
Descending the stairs just behind Spike she scanned around the stands to both sides. Almost all of the spectators appeared to be male, and dressed quite casually. The manner of dress varied from the grimy rags of the local peasantry who had probably blown a month's paltry wage just to be there, to the trendy street clothes of up and coming syndicate members for whom attendance at such events was a weekly habit. It seemed that there was no discrimination by wealth here, in a place to which all had been drawn by a common lust for blood.  
  
And the scanning was mutual. Faye could sense the rather unsavoury stares that she was receiving from within the ocean of rolled up sleeves and loosely applied ties. But then, she'd never let this bother her before, and so she continued to study the stands unfazed. Unfortunately all she saw were row upon row of spectators, crammed together more tightly than could possibly be safe, without a vacant seat to speak of.  
  
"I don't think we're gonna find anywhere to sit around here." she said over Spike's shoulder.  
  
At that moment, as if incited by Faye's words, two figures in the front row of the crowd just to the left of the stairway leapt to their feet and unleashed a barrage of fists and coarse language upon each other.  
  
Spike paused halfway down the stairs, blocking Faye's path in so doing.  
  
"On the contrary." he said. "I think we're about to find some ringside seats."  
  
The drunken fisticuffs had not gone unnoticed by the event staff.  
  
In the stands to the right, a tall anonymous figure dressed in a long dark coat began to make his way across the front row. The figure, masked by the swirling haze of smoke, was visible only by his silhouette against the glare from the ring area. As he ghosted silently towards his quarry, the light danced and glided along the gold lining of his jacket, and arced across a golden cord that fastened the garment across the chest. This manner of dress was all too familiar to both Spike and Faye.  
  
The steward reached the end of the front row and emerged into the space at the foot of the stairs. He had still yet to be noticed by the duelling audience members, who continued to quarrel over whatever trivial matter had angered them. Reaching into his jacket with his right hand, he extracted a lustrous black object.  
  
Instinctively, Spike pulled his own right hand from his pocket and let it hang loose at his side in readiness to reach for his own firearm.  
  
The steward stretched out his arm and trained his weapon upon the back of the nearest antagonist's head. There was a flash of the light from the muzzle of the pistol, accompanied by a deafening crack as it released the projectile. The nearest duellist lurched forwards as he was struck by the bullet, which passed into the back of his head then burst from the front in a glistening crimson shower of blood and shattered bone. The detritus was sprayed across the face and down the front of the second arguer, who himself had only been narrowly missed by the emerging projectile. The sound of the shot had caused a silence to fall upon the arena, allowing the thump of the body striking the ground to echo unchallenged from the bare brick walls.  
  
The second antagonist now stood slack jawed over the body of his fallen adversary. He stared at the steward for a couple of seconds, his expression dripping with shock as his face dripped with gore. Then, consumed by panic, he turned and began to try and force his way past the row of seated spectators.  
  
There was a flash, and a second shot rang out across the arena. The fleeing spectator was stopped in his tracks as a torrent of blood erupted from his chest, and then he too fell to the ground.  
  
The steward retracted his gun and replaced it inside his jacket. Gradually, the silence that had hung over the arena was lifted, and the air was once more filled by the excited hum of hundreds of mingling voices.  
  
A second steward, dressed similarly to the first, began to make his way along the front row from the opposite side to his colleague. The two converged on the corpses that lay out of sight of Spike and Faye, and stooped to pluck them from the floor.  
  
Spike replaced his right hand in his pocket and began to make his way down the stairs once more. He reached the bottom of the stairs just as the steward that had fired the shots was emerging from the front row. The steward had his arms hooked under those of a blood soaked corpse as he dragged it away to be disposed of.  
  
"Excuse me," said Spike. "But would it be alright if we took those seats?"  
  
The steward looked up at Spike.  
  
"By all means." he replied, wearing a chillingly polite smile.  
  
Spike gave a lazy smile of his own.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Stepping to one side, he allowed the steward to drag the body from his path. He then stepped over the body's trailing legs, and began to make his way between the row of spectators and the waist high barrier of cinderblocks.  
  
Faye followed suit, being careful not to allow her dress touch the blood sodden corpse.  
  
"Enjoy your evening, m'am." The steward said, saluting with a reddened hand.  
  
Faye turned to him, and gave an insincere smile.  
  
"Thank you." she said. "Keep up the good work."  
  
Faye then turned, and began to make her way along the front row after Spike.  
  
The newly vacated seats were just a few places along from the aisle. Faye excused herself past several mildly intoxicated audience members before finally reaching her seat. However, before she could sit herself beside the ever-slouching Spike, she noticed that the floor where she was stood was somewhat slippery. Peering down at her feet, she saw that there was a shallow pool of blood smeared across the metal walk way.  
  
"Oh, shit." she lamented, lifting one expensive heel out of the mess.  
  
Spike did not say anything. His point had long since been proven.  
  
Faye glanced down at her seat, a wooden fold-down chair. The chair was spring loaded, and had automatically folded away when its previous occupant had stood up. As such, Faye found it to be mercifully blood-free upon pushing down. She took her seat and sighed with relief at finally being off her feet.  
  
Now seated, both Spike and Faye had an excellent view of the ring below. Though the barrier before them was only a few feet in height, it dropped down a good ten feet on the opposite side. The ring was circular and its floor coated in a layer of fine sand, which was beaten almost flat with footprints and stained brown-red in places. One particularly prominent feature was the ruts that had been carved out of the sand's surface. Though broken and buried in places, it was clear that they ran from all parts of the ring, converging upon a gap in the ring wall that led beneath the far stands. This suggested that something, or more likely someone, had been dragged from the ring on a number of occasions during the evening.  
  
The excited murmurings of the crowd belied the fact that there was no activity whatsoever in the ring area. After looking down at nothing in particular for several minutes, Faye began to grow impatient.  
  
"So, what's going on?" she enquired of Spike.  
  
Spike shrugged.  
  
"Beats me."  
  
"Well, ask someone then." said Faye.  
  
"Why don't you ask someone?" Spike replied.  
  
Faye scowled at Spike, and then turned to the gentleman sitting at her right. As she had made her way to her seat, she had tried to avoid looking at those she was pushing past, and now she remembered why. Her neighbour was in a sorry state. Having clearly consumed more alcohol than his body could tolerate, he was slumped down in his seat, his glazed eyes staring vacantly into space. The semiconscious spectator was breathing heavily through his foul smelling mouth, and both his unshaven chin and un-ironed shirt were encrusted with vomit.  
  
Faye turned back to the ring.  
  
"You know what?" she said. "Never mind."  
  
The minutes continued to pass unfilled as Faye, Spike and the rest of the audience waited for something to happen. As time passed by, the murmurings of the crowd began to change in tone, gradually transforming from an excited buzz to an impatient rumbling. Faye, who was hunched forwards with her elbows on the barrier and her head rested on her hands, cast a weary gaze across the empty ring.  
  
"What the hell is going on?" she sighed. "If this fight doesn't get started soon, I am out of here."  
  
Spike was showing a little more patience. He already had a fair idea of what was happening.  
  
"Patience, Faye." he replied. "There are some things you just can't rush."  
  
Within a few seconds of Spike's speaking, there was evidence of some activity from the gap in the far wall of the ring. A long shadow briefly fell across the contoured surface of the ring, moving about indecisively as its owner dallied tantalising close to the entrance way. Then a man, dressed in a black suit with black bow tie and white shirt, emerged from the corridor beneath the stand. The individual was Chinese in appearance, with short black hair that was slicked back with a large quantity of gel. In his right hand he held a cordless microphone. The man marched across the ring and stopped upon reaching its centre.  
  
The new arrival was greeted by an increase in volume of the crowds murmuring. All eyes were now trained on him, including those of a certain pair of bounty hunters.  
  
"Finally." Faye said, raising her head and resting back into her chair.  
  
However, something was still amiss. Though the individual, evidently the ring announcer, was armed with a microphone, he did not seem in any hurry to use it. Instead, he simply stood at the heart of the arena, fidgeting with his left hand and looking anxiously into the crowd before him. Occasionally he would glance over his shoulder to the doorway as if awaiting some cue to begin.  
  
Eventually, the ring announcer did raise his mike to address the audience.  
  
"Ladies and Gentleman," his nervous voice echoed about the cavernous warehouse. "We apologise for the delay. The competitors are engaged in some last minute warming up and I can assure you they will be ready momentarily. I'm sure you'll agree with me when I say that a bout of this magnitude is well worth the wait. And remember, this evening's proceedings are brought to you by the Blue Rat Alliance, in association with Skyfall Spring Water, 'A sprinkle of moon dust in every bottle'."  
  
The announcer then lowered the mike, and visibly sighed. Within a short time of this, a second man appeared in the doorway behind the first. This one was dressed much more casually than his counterpart, and sported a microphone headset. He appeared to be trying to attract the attention of the announcer. Upon succeeding in this endeavour he began to gesture strongly for the announcer to approach him.  
  
In response to this, the announcer turned away from the doorway and raised his microphone to address the audience once more.  
  
"Excuse me for just a second, folks. It looks like something's going on in the back. Just sit tight and we may have some action for you in just a few moments."  
  
"I'll believe it when I see it." Faye moaned as she watched the announcer turn and move quickly towards his colleague.  
  
She then turned to Spike.  
  
"Was it always like this back on Mars?"  
  
Spike's initial response was to smile enigmatically. He continued to watch as the announcer conversed with his fellow event staff member, an exchange that appeared to become quite heated at times. It was quite obvious to Spike what was going on.  
  
"Always." he said.  
  
The announcer and his associate both disappeared under the stands leaving the ring vacant once more.  
  
"Ugh, this is getting ridiculous." Faye complained. "Is there going to be a fight or not?"  
  
"Just let it play out." Spike advised.  
  
Faye groaned, and reassumed her original head-in-hands position.  
  
Another few minutes past, and then the ring announcer emerged once more. From their ringside seats, Spike and Faye both noticed that he looked slightly flustered, even a little pale beneath the glaring lights.  
  
"What's eating him?" Faye asked, leaning back into her chair.  
  
Spike chuckled to himself.  
  
"Every time." he said softly.  
  
The announcer reached the centre of the ring and raised his microphone.  
  
"Ladies and gentleman, we are now ready for the main event of the evening. Before we continue, let me just remind you that there are bookmakers stationed at all exits from the arena."  
  
Faye's eyes lit up. She looked over her shoulder and, as promised, there was a gentleman wearing a black sandwich board standing at the top of the aisle stairway. The board was covered in chalked writing, displaying what were almost certainly the odds for the next fight.  
  
"I'll be right back." Faye said, standing up.  
  
"Where are you going?" Spike enquired, without displaying too much interest.  
  
"To place a bet."  
  
Spike turned to Faye with a look of mild puzzlement.  
  
"But you haven't even seen the fighter's yet. And besides, didn't we already use all your cash to get in here?"  
  
Faye looked down at Spike and smiled.  
  
"I've got money hidden in places you'll never get your grubby paws."  
  
Spike looked back to the ring. He thought it best to leave the conversation at that. 


	5. Hammer Time

5) Hammer Time  
  
Faye emerged from the front row and began to scale the stairway. As she climbed, she noticed that the bookmaker was at the centre of surprisingly little activity. There were a couple of impoverished looking people around him, exchanging their hard earned pittance for a hope of a better life scribbled upon a slip of paper, but not nearly as many as one might expect.  
  
Reaching the top of the stairs, Faye approached the bookmaker and began to examine the sandwich board.  
  
"See anything you like, miss?" the bookmaker asked.  
  
Faye glanced up to see a leering face peering out at her from beneath a green visor. Reapplying her amiability, as she might reapply her lipstick, Faye replied,  
  
"Maybe."  
  
She then looked back down at the board.  
  
"Tell me," she began. "Are you sure these numbers are right?"  
  
"How do you mean?" the bookmaker asked.  
  
"Well, you've got the challenger down at two hundred and fifty to one. Is Steele fighting a little girl or what?"  
  
"You haven't seen Steele fight, have you?" The bookmaker said rhetorically.  
  
"No, I suppose not." Faye mused.  
  
She mulled over the odds a little longer. Eventually she concluded that a bet on Steele would be a waste of time, since the return if he won would be so small.  
  
"Have made up your mind?" Bookmaker enquired.  
  
"Yes. Ten thousand on the challenger." Faye answered.  
  
The bookmaker shrugged, and produced a blank slip from beneath his board.  
  
"Oh well. It's your money, I guess."  
  
He then began to fill out the slip with a pen that he had extracted from behind his ear.  
  
"You aren't trying to tip me off, are you?" Faye said with a playful smirk.  
  
"Listen lady," the bookmaker began, without looking up from the slip. "I'd be no kind of gentleman if I told you I thought this other guy stood a chance in hell against Steele."  
  
"So you're saying I should place my bet on Steele." said Faye.  
  
The bookmaker glanced up at her,  
  
"Maybe, if you need money for gum. But if put in your place, I'd probably just hang on to my money, like most of the rest of the people around here."  
  
"Well, thanks for the advice," Faye replied. "But I think I'll stick with my bet. After all, a chance at a big win is better than no chance at tall."  
  
"Like I said, it's your money." The bookmaker sighed, and handed the betting slip to Faye.  
  
---- ---- ----  
  
Spike looked up at Faye as she returned to her chair. She was wearing a wide smirk of excitement, the same one she wore every time she caught wind a small fortune.  
  
"So, who did you bet on?" he asked, as if he didn't already know.  
  
"The challenger." Faye replied as she retook her seat.  
  
"Why?" Spike asked, as if he didn't already know that as well.  
  
"The odds on Steele were ridiculous. And besides, I have a soft spot for the underdog. You of all people should know that by now."  
  
Spike returned his attention to the ring. The ring announcer was still working his way through a list of announcements, most pertaining to the various sponsorships to which the event was subject, to the backing of a number of impolite calls for him to get on with it.  
  
". . . and finally our thanks to the fine people at Petrov's Firearms Limited, 'Reliable weapons for an unpredictable solar system'. And now, without further ado, tonight's main event."  
  
"Here we go." Faye said, grasping her betting slip tightly between both hands.  
  
"Introducing first, the challenger. From the brutal pits of Venus, Standing at a monstrous six feet and nine inches, and weighing in at two hundred and forty seven pounds and three ounces, an expert in the ancient art of Thai boxing and exponent of the lethal 'death crescent', Tiger Po!"  
  
"He sure has a lot to say for himself." Faye commented at the end of the announcer's lengthy introduction.  
  
A shadow began to crawl slowly from the doorway across the ring floor. The ring announcer looked over his shoulder, and then began to move slowly away from the centre of the ring as the shadow's owner emerged from the gap in the wall. The fighter, as tall as had been stated, had to stoop as he passed through the doorway. He was an awesome sight. Dressed in blue boxing shorts, and his hands bound with white tape, his powerful musculature twitched and flexed as he strode purposefully across the ring towards its centre.  
  
Something caught Faye's eye. The fighter's right leg below the knee was artificial. A thigh of flesh and bone gave way to a calf of lustrous metal and joints of tort fibres, the mechanical functions of which were audible even above the cheers and jeers of the crowd's mixed reception. It was probable that the noise generated by the limb was by design; a shrewd psychological move played to intimidate opponents.  
  
Upon reaching the heart of the arena the fighter threw his clenched fists aloft and roared in a manner befitting his name. This was met by a sharp increase in the volume of the audience, each of whom voiced their opinion of the fighter based more than a little on the way they had betted, if indeed they had bothered to bet. The fighter then proceeded to fling his prosthetic limb into a series of arcing kicks which, if deployed in combat, would surely have taken his foot clear over the head of most opponents.  
  
"Hey, I like this guy." Faye said, smiling broadly. "Maybe today's not going to be so bad after all. I wonder why he was at two hundred and fifty to one."  
  
"Two hundred and fifty to one, eh?" said Spike. "Sounds a little short, if you ask me."  
  
Faye turned to Spike in puzzlement.  
  
"A little short? Come on Spike, you make it sound as if Steele fights with a rocket launcher."  
  
Spike smirked slightly.  
  
"You haven't seen Steele fight."  
  
Faye briefly adopted a look of concern as she recalled the bookmaker having made a similar comment. Then she shook it off.  
  
"You know what, Spike? I don't care what you say. I'm due some luck and I think that this is going to be my night. I just hope that there's enough of Steele left to hand over for the bounty."  
  
"I just hope you didn't blow more than your share of the bounty on that worthless piece of paper." Spike replied.  
  
Faye huffed angrily and returned her attention to the ring. Her fighter had since moved over to one side, and had begun some last minute warm up manoeuvres. The ring announcer had taken his place at the centre of the arena, and was prepared to make his next introduction.  
  
"And now, the moment you have all been waiting for." he began.  
  
The announcer was then forced to pause as a deafening roar briefly filled the room. The roar died down quickly, and was replaced by a steady chant of 'Stainless' from the crowd, many of whom were now stood up out of their seats.  
  
"From the blood bathed pits of the red planet," he continued in an overly dramatic tone. "Banished to the wastes of Earth for being simply far too dangerous. Cold, hard, merciless, remorseless, and hailed by many as being the greatest pit fighter ever to spill the blood of an opponent. Standing at six feet and five inches, and weighing a powerful two hundred and fifty one pounds, the only style of fighting he knows is. . . killing."  
  
"Oh, please." Faye muttered as the announcer continued to spread it on thick.  
  
"He is loved, he is feared, he is the exponent of the infamous 'Hammer', he is. . . Stainless Steele!" cried the announcer, drawing out Steele's name over some seconds.  
  
This was greeted by a second, much louder and prolonged roar, which gave way to a thunderous pounding as all of the spectators in the arena began to stamp their feet against the metal walkways of the temporary stands. This caused the whole structure to shake and convulse beneath Spike and Faye who had both remained seated.  
  
A second shadow, broader than the first, spilled out of the doorway into the ring. Slowly it crept across the mottled surface of the sandy ground, with every foot that it claimed being greeted by a further increase in the din from the stands. Then he emerged into the light.  
  
A man, his head bowed and his arms hanging at his side, marched slowly into the ring. With his face hidden, all that could be seen was the crown of gleaming silver hair that stood upright in orderly ranks of short bristles. His body, bound first in a sheath of twitching muscle, was clung to by a white vest that was already drenched in sweat from what had likely been a warm up regime as brutal as any fight most would ever experience. This was tucked into a pair of combat style trousers that draped uniformly over a pair of black, laced boots.  
  
Steele reached the heart of the ring. For several anticipation-laden seconds, he stood motionless, almost appearing to be asleep on his feet. Then he began to raise his arms from his sides. The light from above the ring burst from the tips of Steele's fingers and from his knuckles as it fell upon the exposed metal bone-structure, which glinted like bizarre items of jewellery.  
  
As his open, up-turned palms rose into the air, a sound began to emanate from within him. A low, near inaudible rumbling carried through the cloudy air, like distant thunder that warned of an approaching storm. The sound grew louder and louder, and then, as his arms reached a horizontal position, Steel threw back his head and unleashed a horrifying cry.  
  
The ear-piercing sound evoked similar cries from the audience whose latent, primal blood thirst seemed to be awoken by its uneven strains.  
  
Faye looked about at the howling crowd. The once sleepy, inebriated faces had become twisted and grotesque as they responded to Steele in a language of primal rage.  
  
She leaned over to Spike.  
  
"Is this normal?" she asked over the din, keeping one cautious eye on her howling neighbours.  
  
"All part of the act." Replied Spike, who, as usual, was playing the casual observer.  
  
Stainless Steele ceased his battle cry. Gradually, he lowered his arms and brought his head forwards, signifying an end to the crescendo of howls. The arena was then filled with the sound of weary bodies dropping back into seats as the audience were vacated by whatever bestial force had possessed them only moments ago.  
  
Now that Steele was stood face forwards his hard, grizzled features were apparent. Everything about him reeked of fighting, from his powerful upper body, to his scarred, misshapen face. His brow hung low, obscuring much of his eyes. But even so, it was his eyes that were his most prominent feature. They were a brilliant, almost metallic blue, and frigidly cold to match the soul they windowed.  
  
Steele turned and slowly made his way to the opposite side of the ring to his opponent. Once he was well out of the way, the ring announcer moved to the centre of the ring.  
  
"This match is set for one fall." he announced. "No more than one competitor may leave this ring alive. To the winner will go the B.R.A Pit- fighting championship, and the chance to live to fight once again."  
  
Faye leaned over to Spike again.  
  
"Shouldn't there be some sort of belt, or something?" she asked. "Some kind of award to show who the champion is."  
  
"You're looking at it." Spike said.  
  
Faye cocked an eyebrow.  
  
"He's still alive." Spike explained. "That's the prize for winning in this business."  
  
Faye looked back to the fighters.  
  
"So, they go out there and put their lives at risk every week for no good reason." she mused. "No wonder this sport appeals to * you*, Spike."  
  
The ring announcer began to pace backwards slowly towards the opening in the ring wall.  
  
"And now," he proclaimed. "Ladies and gentlemen, gangsters and bosses. . . let's get ready to rumble!"  
  
At this, a great cheer swelled up from the stands. The announcer turned and trotted towards the doorway just as two burly men began to push a large, metal panel across it from within the corridor. Quickly he slid through the narrow gap that remained, and then the doorway was sealed with a resounding clash of concrete and steel.  
  
The two fighters, now sealed in the ring together, turned to face one another. Po brought his bound fists up across his face, and raised his body up onto his toes. He then began to bound gently from one foot to the other, as if performing some subtle war dance to unnerve his foe.  
  
At first, Steele stood perfectly still, his clenched fists held rigidly at his side. Then, baring his teeth, he tensed every formidable muscle in his hulking body, causing him to visibly increase in size. A labyrinth of veins rose up across the surface of his biceps, each one pounding as the power surged through the fighter's arms. Steele was ready.  
  
Po moved first. Deftly he glided across the ring, following a meandering course so as to maintain an element of surprise until the last possible moment.  
  
Steele did not move from his position, choosing to watch intently as his opponent approached.  
  
Reaching a point only a few feet from Steele, Po stopped, and began to bob and weave on the spot as he prepared for the first strike.  
  
An arc of silver lighting shot from the floor, veiled in a cloud of glittering sand. This was followed immediately by a metallic clash of thunder and a rain of brilliant blue sparks.  
  
Faye looked on in disbelief. The first two moves of the game had been played almost too fast for her to see. Po was now perched on his left foot with his right foot held almost at his own head height, having deployed it in the first attack. However, his strike had met with the back of Steele's open hand, which he now held mere inches from his own face; mere inches from his death.  
  
Po withdrew his foot, and bounced back a few feet. Then, he pounced upon Steele once again, throwing a vicious, stabbing kick at his opponent's abdomen.  
  
There was a second hale of sparks, and Po's foot was flung aside by the force of Steele's backhanded block. Po momentarily stumbled backwards, thrown from his balance. He was able to right himself quickly, but this time, it was Steel who made the advance.  
  
The imposing fighter began to pace towards his prey, the tempo of his step quickening as he drew closer.  
  
Po floundered, caught on the point of Steele's impaling stare. Clearly, he had intended to essentially end the match in the first couple of blows, thereby preventing Steele from getting into his stride. But now that his strategy had been batted away, along with his seemingly feeble attacks, the unfortunate fighter was faced with the horrifying prospect of a toe-to-toe fight with the longest ever, reigning pit-fight champion. Now he hopped unsurely between feet, with both his plan and his confidence in tatters.  
  
With his final stride, Steele launched his right fist towards Po's chest. His glinting knuckles were met by Po's lustrous shin as he drew it up in defence. But still, the sheer force of Steele's attack caused Po to stagger backwards once again, this time ending up with his back to the wall, both literally and figuratively.  
  
Steele lunged at Po again. Unable to react to block Po leapt aside, and turned in time to see Steele's fist rasping by only centimetres away. Steele's knuckles ploughed instead into the cinderblock wall, causing the face of one of the blocks to erupt in a plume of dust and pulverised concrete.  
  
Po was momentarily mesmerised by the cloud of debris as he contemplated just how close he had come to death. This was a mistake. Without pause, Steele lashed out at his foe with his balled left fist. Caught unawares, Po had little time for a block, and in a single thoughtless moment, deployed his forearm in place of his shin.  
  
Faye grimaced as the arena was filled by the sickening crack of shattering bone, and the pathetic cry of agony emitted by her fighter. The crowd roared at the sight and sound of Tiger Po's misfortune, before settling into a steady baying for his demise.  
  
"Do you think it's too late to change my bet?" Faye asked Spike as she watched her ten thousand Woolongs being cruelly beaten to death.  
  
Spike glanced across at her,  
  
"I knew a guy who tried that once." he said, and then turned back to the fight. "You know, it was snowing on the day they buried him as well."  
  
Faye's heart sank. Reluctantly, she returned her attention to the massacre.  
  
"I knew I should have stuck to the ponies." she muttered.  
  
Meanwhile, Po was still reeling from the crushing blow to his left arm. The appendage was hanging limp at his side, the deep red, oxygenated blood streaming from where a serrated dagger of bone had pierced it from within. He had begun backing away, every step evidently causing him intense pain as his pulverised arm was jerked and jarred.  
  
Steele was in a steady pursuit, his cold eyes locked on Po as he paced along the trail of blood stained sand.  
  
In desperation, Po threw an uncertain kick at his opponent. This one lacked either the power or precision of his previous efforts, and was comfortably evaded by Steele, who simply leaned away as Po's metal foot whistled by his faced.  
  
Po winced as he stumbled back, his balance compromised by the lost use of one of his arms. His left hand lingered over the smashed limb, longing to cradle it, and yet reluctant to touch for fear of causing further pain. Looking up, he once again laid eyes on the approaching Steele. Drawing strength from the pain and humiliation he was being subject to by the veteran fighter, Po let out a sharp cry and dropped to the ground, swinging his prosthesis out into a sweeping kick at Steele's legs.  
  
Steele, in a moment of near precognition, reacted to the manoeuvre at the very instant it was deployed. Dropping to one knee, he drove his fist down towards the ground. The pile-driving blow landed squarely on the joint between the foot and ankle of Po's prosthetic leg.  
  
A shower of white-hot sparks leapt from the impact site, accompanied by the shrill buzz of warping mechanisms and the spine-chilling scream of a man in singular agony.  
  
Steele raised his fist, allowing the near defeated Po to scramble away. Po continued to bark and yelp as every nerve ending connecting flesh to machine rioted with extraneous bolts of electrical current. The fighter then toppled onto his left side in his efforts to escape, causing himself yet more torture as the salty, abrasive sand was driven into his wounded arm.  
  
Steele slowly rose to his feet. He stood motionless once more, watching in silence as his broken adversary struggled to pull himself up onto his remaining good leg.  
  
Po finally reached verticality. With one mangled arm swinging from its socket, and a mass of warped metal dragging through the sand, he slowly began to circle the periphery of the ring. However, having lost a considerable amount of blood, and being almost delirious from the unnatural level of pain he was experiencing from the tiny bolts of lightning that still arced between the severed conduits in his right leg, he was in no longer in any condition to fight.  
  
Spike turned his attention from the 'fight' just as Po was dragging himself to just a few meters in front of where he was sat. Reaching into his jacket, he removed a cigarette and then placed it between his lips. Again, he reached into his jacket, and produced his silver lighter.  
  
Faye turned to Spike, her face painted in shades of horror, disappointment and disgust.  
  
"Hey, aren't you watching the rest of the match?" she asked, adopting a look of bemusement at Spike's apparent disinterest.  
  
"What match?" Spike replied, flicking open the lid of the lighter. "This one was over before it started."  
  
Just as Spike raised his thumb to ignite the lighter, his attention was caught by a voice coming from the stands behind him. The lone voice, just barely audible over the chorus of bloodthirsty howling that dominated the ambience, was chanting the word 'hammer' over and over. Another, and another then joined that voice as the chant began to spread. In moments, the chant had swept across the stands like a wildfire, consuming crowd member after crowd member as a blaze would fuel.  
  
Spike looked out at the ring where Po was stood unsteadily, back to the stand, with Steele stood only a couple of meters from him. For a moment, he forgot entirely about the waiting cigarette and his duty to light it as he became lost in the living memory of fights past.  
  
Steele looked into the crowd. Slowly, his piercing eyes cut a swathe across the audience as he took in their repetitive request. Then, he looked back to Po and began to draw back his right fist, an action that caused the crowds chanting to plunge back into a discordant song of a savage bloodlust.  
  
Silence fell across the arena, as Steele's fist was fully withdrawn. The only sounds that could be heard were the bass growl of Stainless Steele's breath, and the soft patter of Tiger Po's blood upon the floor of the ring as it continued to course from his mangled arm. This persisted for a few seconds, and then Steele's breath ceased.  
  
The fist flew forwards. In an instant, it struck Po's forehead, ploughing through bone and tissue with a stomach-turning crunch. The result was an explosion of crimson debris that burst from the point of impact and rained into the stands behind. Po's body twisted and reeled as Steele followed through, pirouetting away from the assailant before collapsing to the ground in a twisted, lifeless heap.  
  
All around, the crowd erupted into a frenzy of ecstatic cheering. Almost every last audience member leapt to their feet, causing the stands to shudder once more. The cacophony of delighted cries soon faded seamlessly into a steady chant of 'Stainless', prompting the Steele to throw his head back and release a howl of triumph as he stood over the smashed corpse of what was now scarcely recognisable as his opponent, Tiger Po.  
  
Spike blinked as the sensation of warm drops of blood bursting on his skin brought him out of his trance. Raising his free hand, he wiped some of the fluid from his face and then examined the red smear on his fingers. He then wiped his hand on his jacket.  
  
As he had expected, the fight had been over fairly quickly. In fact, if anything, it had taken slightly longer even than his more conservative estimates.  
  
Spike smiled to himself as he looked down upon the still howling Steele.  
  
"Nice going, champ." he said softly.  
  
He then returned his attention to the lighter in his hand. Raising his thumb once more, he attempted to activate the device. However, it stubbornly refused to light. It did not take Spike long to notice that the reason for this was a large drop of blood that had fallen across the gas vent in the exposed top of the lighter.  
  
"Damn it." he muttered.  
  
Spike closed the lighter, and replaced it into his pocket. He then turned to Faye.  
  
"Hey Faye, do you have a. . ."  
  
Spike stopped mid-sentence. The cause of his silence was the sight of Faye, as it seemed that the unfortunate bounty huntress had taken the brunt of the debris thrown from Steele's final attack on Po. Now her face was spattered in a thick soup of blood and flesh, and her hair matted with the same. The gory mess also extended down the front of her once immaculate dress.  
  
She was staring out across the ring, but not at anything specific. Her mouth was closed tight to prevent any of the human detritus from entering, and her left eyebrow twitched spasmodically, denoting her quiet horror at what had just happened to her.  
  
For a moment, Spike searched for something to say. But he soon surrendered, realising that there was no witty one-liner that could possibly make an impact on Faye in her current state of mind.  
  
Without warning, Faye rose to her feet. She turned from Spike and, without so much as a goodbye, began to force her way past the row of celebrating spectators.  
  
Spike watched her leaving, and then looked back to the grisly scene in the ring. He had a feeling that Faye would not be back.  
  
Steele eventually ceased his victory cry. Coolly, he cast a final, disdainful look down upon the battered body of Po, then turned and began to make his way out of the ring. He marched across the bloodstained sands of the arena and arrived at the doorway just as the metal panel was being hauled aside. He then passed through the door and vanished beneath the stands.  
  
A few moments later, two syndicate stewards emerged into the ring, followed closely by the ring announcer. One of the stewards was carrying a rolled up piece of plastic beneath one arm. He and his companion trotted across to the corpse of Po, and began to unroll what turned out to be a body bag. The carrier of the bag drew open the long zip down its front, and then joined his colleague in the messy endeavour of shifting what remained on Po into the bag.  
  
The announcer took up his post at the centre of the ring. Raising his microphone he addressed the audience, most of whom had already begun to leave.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen." he said, gesturing towards the empty doorway. "Your winner, and still the B.R.A pit-fighting champion. . . Stainless Steele!"  
  
This time, the ring announcer's cry of Steele's name received little response from the tired crowd. Each seemed more interested in departing and returning to their homes.  
  
"Thank you for joining us this evening." he continued. "On behalf of the Blue Rat Alliance, I hope you enjoyed the show and I wish you a safe journey home. Goodnight everyone."  
  
The announcer allowed his mike arm to fall at his side. He then sighed, and gave a look of weary irritation at the fact that very few were paying any attention.  
  
The ring announcer watched as the stewards dragged the fully laden body bag past him, and then turned and followed them out through the gap in the ring wall.  
  
Spike remained for a little while, watching quietly from his seat as the crowd slowly drained away via the exits around the warehouse, and while those unable to leave under their own power were hauled away by the stewards. Gradually, the buzz of the exiting throng grew quieter and quieter, until finally the arena was all but deserted.  
  
Spike drew in a lung full of war, smoky air. He exhaled slowly, watching as his breath disturbed the silently swirling haze.  
  
"I guess it's time for me to earn my keep." he sighed.  
  
Spike removed the unlit cigarette from his mouth and replaced into the inside pocket of his jacket. He then hauled himself out of his chair, and began to make his way out of the arena. 


	6. Hard Day's Night

6) Hard Day's Night.  
  
Spike strolled down the darkened corridor, and stopped at a junction with a second, well-lit corridor. Glancing casually from side to side he carefully mapped his surroundings. To his left, just a few meters down the hallway, lay the entranceway to the ring. The metal panel that had previously sealed the fighters into the arena now covered the door once again. Now that the event had ended, there was little activity in this area.  
  
Spike looked to his right. The scene in this direction was in stark contrast to that in the other. Here, the corridor buzzed with activity. All along its length, people were scampering about their business, ducking and dodging amidst one another like a colony of insects, performing innumerable tasks in the pursuit of a single goal. Backstage staff quick marched up and down, chattering into their headsets. Stewards raced about in pairs, shifting body bags and shepherding loiterers from the building, and victorious fighters, many looking more like they had just received a brutal thrashing, staggered in and out of their dressing rooms, bound in rudimentary dressings like embalmed corpses.  
  
Spike stepped out into the corridor. Turning right, he strode slowly along its length, carefully dodging and weaving between the many urgent looking individuals, whilst himself trying to appear calm and unruffled. This tactic appeared to be paying off. Staff, stewards and fighters alike all paid little attention to his presence, each of them being more concerned with their own pressing issues.  
  
It had not been difficult to gain access to the backstage area. In Spike's experience, he had found that the staff would, in general, ignore those who did not appear out of place. Instead, they would tend to focus their efforts on the more disruptive, i.e. drunken, elements. And this was understandable. After all, surely only a drunk would be stupid enough to make trouble in the midst of the system's most dangerous fighters. Clichéd though it was, there was still something to be said for *just acting natural *.  
  
Dodging around a large, particularly foul smelling fighter, Spike emerged into a strangely deserted stretch of corridor. The area was clear of activity, with the exception of a single, familiar face. The ring announcer was stood side on to Spike, thumbing through a note pad, which probably contained a schedule or inventory of some kind.  
  
Spike stopped about ten meters from the announcer, and slowly backed up against the wall that his quarry was facing. He glanced down the corridor in the direction from which he had just come to ensure that he was not being watched, and then discretely removed his communicator from his jacket. Turning it on, he flicked the button to open the comm. link to the Bebop and waited patiently for a response.  
  
"Yeah?" said Jet, as his weary face materialised on the screen.  
  
"Hey, Jet." Spike replied quietly. "I need an ID."  
  
Jet yawned.  
  
"Yeah. Just let me get a shot of him."  
  
"Alright." Spike said.  
  
Glancing around once again, Spike made sure he was still being ignored. He then turned the communicator towards the ring announcer, and allowed it to linger while Jet captured his image in profile.  
  
"Okay." Came Jet's voice after a few moments.  
  
Spike turned the communicator back towards himself.  
  
"So, what have you got?" he asked his partner.  
  
"Just a second." Jet replied irritably.  
  
A faint tapping could be heard as Jet continued to give his attention to something out of the frame of the communicator. After a few seconds, he returned his attention to Spike.  
  
"Okay." he began. "His name is Mao Chen. He's an employee of the Blue Rat Alliance who organises some of the syndicate's pit-fighting events at ground level."  
  
"Yeah, I guessed that much." Spike replied. "Have you got anything new, like a bounty?"  
  
Jet frowned quizzically.  
  
"A bounty?"  
  
"You heard me." Spike said, looking about cautiously. "How much is he worth?"  
  
Jet gave Spike a suspicious look, and then looked to one side. After a couple more seconds of tapping he returned with his answer.  
  
"One hundred thousand Woolongs." he replied. "Saying that this guy is small time would be a gross overstatement."  
  
Spike glanced across a Mao and gave a disappointed grunt.  
  
"I know what you're thinking, Spike." Jet said. "But Steele is the only guy in that building whose worth more than a tin of sardines. You either bring him in, or no one at all."  
  
He then closed his eyes rubbed his furrowed brow.  
  
"You know, I'm beginning to think Faye was right about you and Steele."  
  
"Hey. I just thought we could get a twofer, that's all." said Spike.  
  
Jet frowned sceptically.  
  
"Yeah, right. You just go and find Steele, and don't call me again until you have something worthwhile."  
  
He then cut the transmission.  
  
"I guess that's what I get for showing some initiative." Spike complained to himself.  
  
He slipped communicator back into his jacket and looked across at Mao. The ring announcer had not moved, and was still pouring over his note pad. Putting on his best friendly face, Spike pushed himself away from the wall, slipped his hands into his pockets, and began to approach Mao in a casual manner.  
  
"Excuse me." Spike said upon reaching his target.  
  
Mao responded by frowning as he heightened his concentration, trying to block out the disturbance.  
  
"Excuse me." Spike repeated, this time a little more forcefully.  
  
"What?" Mao rasped, not granting Spike the courtesy of eye contact.  
  
"I was wondering if you could help me with some directions."  
  
"Yeah . . ."  
  
"Could you tell me where I might find Stainless Steele?"  
  
Mao relaxed his frown, and looked up at Spike.  
  
"What?" he said, almost laughing as he did.  
  
"I'm looking for Stainless Steele." Spike reiterated, and then smiled. "Can you help me?"  
  
"I'll help you." said Mao. "I'll help you by telling you no."  
  
"C'mon, can't you cut a guy a break?" Spike pleaded. "Just this once?"  
  
"I said no." Replied Mao. "Nobody disturbs Mr Steele after the fight."  
  
"Hey, I only want an autograph. You know, I'm a huge fan of his."  
  
"Is that right? Well, if you're a fan, then you'll know what happens to people who disturb Mr Steele after a fight."  
  
Spike gave a dramatic sigh, and shrugged his shoulders.  
  
"Yeah, I guess you're right."  
  
"Good guess." Mao replied, and then looked back at his pad. "Now get outta here."  
  
Mao waved Spike away.  
  
Spike turned, and paused to look back down the corridor. As before, the busy throng was still unconcerned with his presence.  
  
He took a step forwards, and then stopped. For an instant, he let go his physical senses, and allowed his finely honed instincts to guide his subsequent action. As Spike's mind and body relaxed, the position of every individual in the area, their every move, and their every breath became apparent to him. Then, in a motion that flowed from every part of his being, he pivoted on his right foot and flung his left out behind him.  
  
Spike scarcely felt the impact as his heel struck Mao across the back of the head. In the instants that ensued as Spike followed through, Mao stumbled forwards and struck the wall before him. There was a dull crack as his nose was shattered against the unforgiving brickwork, and then he began to topple backwards. In response, Spike glided effortlessly across to Mao and grabbed him by his lapels before he could collapse noisily to the ground.  
  
Spike turned his back to the crowd so as to hide the unconscious Mao, and then glanced over his shoulder. Good fortune had remained with him as he had yet to attract any attention. Looking back over Mao's shoulder, he spotted a knee-high crate standing flush against the wall. Carefully, he manoeuvred his cargo over to the crate and sat him down on it with his back to the brickwork. He then proceeded to tug the creases out of Mao's jacket and straighten his tie.  
  
Spike looked into Mao's bloody-nosed face, and smiled.  
  
"I'm sure you could use a nap after such a hard night's work." he said softly.  
  
He then stood up and put his hands in his pockets.  
  
"Sweet dreams."  
  
Spike turned and began to make his way down the corridor. If Stainless Steele's reputation was anything like what it had been back on Mars, then there would probably be no one within a mile of his dressing room. It was like Mao had said; nobody disturbs Mr Steele after the fight. As such, Spike felt sure he was heading in the right direction.  
  
He continued up the deserted corridor, the busy hum of the crowd growing ever more faint as they grew more distant. After a short time, Spike came upon a t-junction in the corridor. Peering round the corner, he found the adjoining hallway to be short and dark, and terminated with a dented and rusting metal door. There was a piece of grubby white paper taped to the door with the word Steele scratched upon it in black ink.  
  
"This must be the place." Spike said to himself, and then turned down the corridor.  
  
Approaching the door, Spike raised a fist to knock. He then paused. Lowering his hand, he gave thought to what chance he would have of winning Steele's attention by these means. If Steele really didn't want to be disturbed, then it was unlikely he would open his door to any passer by who happened to come knocking.  
  
Spike looked down at the tarnished door-handle.  
  
"Worth a shot." he said.  
  
He then grasped the handle, turned it, and pushed against the door. It creaked open with little resistance. It appeared that Steele relied upon his own frightful reputation to dissuade would-be visitors, a ploy that was evidently quite effective.  
  
Spike moved into the room, and closed the door behind him. The dressing room was Spartan to day the least. Its four bare brick walls contained nothing more than a chair, a desk with a cracked mirror and a roll of bandages set upon it, and a worn tan sports bag that sat solitarily in the far corner. The shadows that were cast by these objects swayed gently as the single naked light bulb that hung from the ceiling was disturbed by the draft of the closing door.  
  
The wall to Spike's left housed a closed door, from behind which was emanating the sound of running water. Reaching into his jacket, Spike drew his gun from its holster and began to move stealthily across room, using the fluctuating sound of the water to mask his footfalls as they crunched down against the gravel-strewn floor. Upon reaching the door, Spike raised his gun up to his cheek, allowing its cold contours to almost brush his skin, and pressed his free hand against the door's warm, clammy surface.  
  
Then, something caught his eye. There was an object placed on the seat of the wooden chair, almost hidden by the shadows beneath the desk. From what was visible of the object, it appeared to be a book.  
  
Spike glanced back at the closed door, and then slowly moved away. Overcome by curiosity, or so he told himself, Spike replaced his gun and drifted almost silently across the room. Approaching the desk, he reached down and carefully extracted the object from its hiding placed.  
  
It was indeed a book, and a fairly thick one at that. The tome was bound in a deep red cover, which was itself adorned by a black-marbling design. Its wide spine was held together by a number of lengths of discoloured tape, indicative of many years of repair, or maybe even expansion. The thickness of the book belied the actual number of pages it contained, which was not many for book its girth. The black pages appeared thick and warped from the outside, to the point that the book was close to spontaneously falling open.  
  
Slowly, Spike pushed the front cover aside causing the stiff, aged card to creak mournfully as it was disturbed. He was greeted by the musty smell of matured paper and disturbed dust which swirled from the pages like restless spirits as the lid of their tomb was pulled away. He then pressed his hand down across the inside cover and first page to prevent it from flicking over unintentionally. What he found there captivated him.  
  
The first page had two newspaper clippings glued to it. Each of the yellowed irregularly shaped snippets held a single photograph, a headline, and a couple of blocks of text. The first of these even had the title of the publication from which it had been taken still attached. *Blood Sport *. Spike smiled to himself. He hadn't seen a copy of the syndicate sports weekly in some years.  
  
The title at the head of the article read 'Upset At Olympus City Fights'. Intrigued, Spike read on:  
  
*There was uproar at Sunday night's event in Olympus city as Iron-Side Flanagan, number one contender and fan favourite, was killed in the ring at the end of what should have been a routine warm-up match ahead of the main event at Tharsis next week. This upset overshadowed even the subsequent main event between champion, Pincer Chao, and special guest fighter Colossus Mann. The challenger, a promising young fighter by the name of Stainless Steele, ended Flanagan's. . . *  
  
Spike cocked an eyebrow.  
  
"Promising *young* fighter." he muttered.  
  
He stood bemused for a couple of moments before realising that he had not yet checked the date of the publication. November 15th, 2030. It was an account of Steele's first death-match.  
  
And there was more. Just beneath this article, and just above the one below, was taped a ragged-edge piece of white paper with a short note scrawled upon it.  
  
*Work on left block. 11/16/30*  
  
Spike deduced that this was a note made by Steele himself, jotting down improvements that were required ahead of subsequent fights.  
  
The next article chronicled Steele's victory over The Callisto Kid. Below this was taped another note, this time suggesting work to harden his abdominal muscles.  
  
Spike began to skip to random pages. All through the scrapbook, he found similar such articles, most of which were appended with notes for future training regimes. There were dozens of clippings, taken from the various sports pages of numerous worlds; an entire career's worth.  
  
A thought occurred to Spike. Tentatively, he pushed his thumb beneath the remaining pages and brushed them aside.  
  
The final page was blank. There was just enough room for two more articles and addenda, enough room for that evening's fight, and his retirement bout. This was a sobering sight.  
  
Carefully he turned back to the first page. It was then that he saw something he had not noticed before. At the bottom right hand corner of the inside cover was taped a small newspaper column, so small that it had been obscured from Spike's view by his own hand. There was no headline, nor was there a date, only a single, narrow paragraph of text about five centimetres long. Spike began to read.  
  
His attention was caught by motion occurring at the periphery of his vision. Glancing up, Spike found that the shadow of the desk before him had once again begun to dance from side to side. What was more, the sound of running water was gone.  
  
Spike leapt back as streak of silver light raced by before his face, dropping the book to the ground as he did. He did not even have the time to feel the cool lick of the whipping air current before ducking a second bolt of silver.  
  
Skipping back a couple of paces, Spike saw the angrily grimacing Stainless Steele, who was dressed only in black sweat pants. However, a glance was all he was allowed before the gargantuan fighter glided effortlessly across the room toward him. He unleashed a third attack.  
  
Spike sidestepped as quickly as his reflexes would allow, but still he felt the sting of honed metal slicing across his right ear. Turning to face his assailant, he watched as Steele's outstretched fingertips cut inches into the solid brick wall behind where he had been stood. There was a burst of clay-dust, followed by a frustrated growl. Shattered clay poured from the wounded brickwork as the fighter hauled his hand from the fissure, and turned to face Spike.  
  
He was a frightening sight, even more so at close range than when viewed from the dubious safety of the bleachers. Steele towered over Spike, his broad shadow spilling over him like a surge of pitch-black. His impressive musculature writhed beneath his clammy skin, seeming to desire the commencement of battle as a being onto itself. And his eyes, set into his war-torn face, seemed to suck the very warmth from the air around.  
  
Steele began to raise his lustrously knuckled fists, bearing a look of threatening intent; his haggard face twisted and creased into a cast of inhuman anger.  
  
"Get out." he growled.  
  
Spike returned Steele's glare. He stood with his limbs loose in readiness to dodge another attack, and with his right hand lingering at his chest, longing to tend to his sharply stinging ear.  
  
"Not until I get what I came for." he replied.  
  
"Get out." Steele repeated.  
  
Spike smiled slyly.  
  
"You can drop the act, Steele." he said. "I know you're not going to kill me."  
  
Steele's poise and expression remained unchanged.  
  
"What makes you so sure?" he snarled.  
  
"Because if you wanted me dead, then I already would be. You're a hell of a lot quicker than that."  
  
There was a short pause, filled only by the rumble of Steele's breath and the soft patting of the blood that dripped from Spike's injured ear against the concrete floor. Then Steele slowly began to mirror Spike's smile.  
  
"Maybe I'm just getting old." said Steele.  
  
"Pit-fighter's don't get old." Spike replied. "They can't afford to."  
  
"You seem to think you know a lot about pit fighters."  
  
"I do. For example, I know that you've never killed anyone outside the ring."  
  
Steele emitted a short, almost laughter-like grunt.  
  
"Who told you that?" he asked.  
  
"Don't get me wrong, Stainless. I've heard the stories, but that's all they are." Spike replied.  
  
The two men beheld each other for a while longer, with the stare of each of their unusual sets of eyes attempting to cut through the other's defences. At first neither seemed ready to surrender his position. But after a protracted stalemate, both began to gradually lower their guard.  
  
Steele gave a rumbling sigh.  
  
"You're not going to go away, are you?"  
  
" 'fraid not." Spike replied.  
  
Steele grunted with tired frustration, and turned away from Spike. He inhaled deeply, and then slowly exhaled. With this laboured breath, the frightening rage that had seemed to fuel his previous acts of brutality was expelled from his body. As he had appeared to increase in physical size just prior to his fight, so he seemed to reduce as this ballast was released. The fighter began to march across to his desk, his slouching shoulders denoting a weariness derived not only of a night's exertion, but of a lifetime of violence and savagery.  
  
"Usually, all I have to do is show my face and it's enough to get rid of someone." he grumbled. "Failing that, the clip across the ear always finishes the job."  
  
Spike watched as Steele turned and paced to the desk. The man before him was a far cry from the vision of primal rage that had so mercilessly annihilated Tiger Po, to the jubilation of a horde of bloodthirsty fans. This was a man who was beginning to look his age.  
  
"I guess not everyone has followed your career as closely as I have." Spike said.  
  
Of course, this was something of a white lie, since Spike had fallen out of the pit-fighting loop in the last few years.  
  
As Steele approached the chair, he leaned down and plucked the scrapbook from the floor. He dusted it off, and then dropped it down onto the desk.  
  
"I see." he said. "So, what is it you want? If it was a drink that you were after, then I'm afraid you're out of luck."  
  
"Actually, I was wondering if I could get an autograph."  
  
"I'm afraid I can't help you with that, either." Steele replied. "I have a reputation to uphold, you know."  
  
The fighter pulled the chair out from beneath the desk and dropped down into it wearily. Steele echoed the tired creak of the aged wood as his immense frame fell limp into the seat.  
  
"Hey, I won't tell anyone if you won't." Spike assured him.  
  
Steele exhaled hard through his nose, and rubbed his forehead with the metal tips of his fingers. He then looked at Spike.  
  
"Alright." he sighed. "But I haven't got a pen."  
  
"I think I have one here." said Spike.  
  
He reached into his jacket, but it was not a pen for which he was reaching.  
  
"You know, I wouldn't normally do this," Steele continued. "But with my retirement coming up, I guess my reputation isn't going to be that important anymore."  
  
"Oh, that's right. It's your retirement fight soon, isn't it? I wish I could be there *that * fight." Spike said as he grasped the handle of his gun.  
  
"Well, I'm afraid it's been sold out for weeks." Steele informed him.  
  
"That's too bad. I bet it's gonna be one hell of a party."  
  
"Yeah. Everyone's going to be there." Steele said with a soulful, almost sarcastic tone of enthusiasm.  
  
Spike paused, and then relaxed his grip slightly.  
  
"Everyone?" he said.  
  
"That's right." Steele replied. "Governors, Blue Rat top brass, even a couple of guys I used to work with on Mars."  
  
"Really." said Spike as he pulled an empty hand from his jacket.  
  
"Yeah, really. . . Hey, have you got that pen?"  
  
"No. Guess I must have left it in my ship."  
  
"Oh." said Steele. "Too bad."  
  
"Don't worry about it." Spike replied.  
  
There was then a lull in the conversation. For a short time, Spike stared uncomfortably into Steele's narrowing eyes, and began to suspect that the fighter's keen instincts had pierced through his pretence. The fingers on Spike's non-pocketed hand began to twitch as he readied himself for a second confrontation.  
  
"You know, I'm sure I've seen you somewhere before." Steele said, pensively. "You used to come to the fights on Mars, right?"  
  
Spike relaxed a little.  
  
"You remember me?" he asked.  
  
He fought to contain a small smile, as he felt both surprised and flattered by the idea.  
  
"Yeah, I have a pretty good memory." Steele said. "You used to come to the fights in Tharsis, front row centre every time. And there was usually someone with you. Let me think. . . yeah, there was a guy, kind of slim with long, silver hair?"  
  
Spike's smile evaporated, and his expression hardened.  
  
"I think you have me confused with someone else."  
  
"No, I don't think so."  
  
Spike's cast remained stony.  
  
"I guess you could be right." Steele conceded.  
  
He clasped his hands and cracked his knuckles, causing them to produce a sound one might associate more with a metallic mechanism than flesh and bone. He then yawned.  
  
"Listen, uh. . . what did you say your name was?" Steele enquired.  
  
"Spike. Spike Spiegel."  
  
"Listen, Spike, it's getting kind of late. We've gotta pack up soon, so if it's all the same to you. . ."  
  
Spike gave his trademark skewed smile.  
  
"No problem. I think it's time I headed back anyway. The folks are probably getting worried."  
  
Steele's face creased up into a half-hearted smile.  
  
"Thanks, kid. Oh, and could you do me a favour?"  
  
"Sure thing, Stainless."  
  
"On your way out, could you try and make sure no one sees you? It wouldn't look good if I was just letting people waltz in and out of my dressing room without at least crippling them."  
  
"No problem." Spike replied, and then turned for the door.  
  
He began to walk across to the doorway, but then stopped just before reaching it. There he stood for a couple of moments as he mulled over an idea that had been percolating in his mind for a couple of minutes.  
  
Spike knew that Jet probably wouldn't like it, and he was certain that Faye wouldn't. Perhaps these were the reasons he chose his following course of action. He couldn't be certain. His crewmates often complained of being unable to understand him, and this was more than likely due to the fact that he himself often could not put a finger on his own motives. But if there was one thing that was sure of, it was that, in life, there were times when it was best to simply follow one's nose.  
  
"Was there something else?" Steele asked, his voice heavy with fatigue and drizzled with impatience.  
  
This was one of those times.  
  
Spike smiled to himself and, without turning to face Steele, said,  
  
"Actually, there was one other thing." 


	7. What's The Story Morning Glory

7) What's The Story, Morning Glory.  
  
Jet allowed himself to fall back into the couch upon which he was sat. Raising both of his hands up, he clasped them across the top of his head, and stared at Spike. He could not believe what he had just heard.  
  
Over the years, Spike had let slip his fair share of bounties. Fugitives had slipped through his grasp in the unlikeliest of ways, failures that had been followed by the unlikely excuses to match. But this; this wasn't even an excuse.  
  
Spike stood in the doorway of the sitting room, one hand in his pocket, the other hanging at his side. He returned Jet's stare, his face devoid of any discernable emotion as if he was waiting for an infusion the stuff in lecture form.  
  
The sight of Spike's cool façade grated on Jet's nerves. It was as if Spike expected him to just accept what he had been told. To just shrug his shoulders and say. "No problem, Spike. I'd have done the same in your position." But it was a problem, and he wanted somehow to convey that to Spike in a way that would not just go in one ear and out the other, as was the norm.  
  
"Spike, I. . ." Jet began, but the words escaped him.  
  
He closed his eyes, and then opened them again.  
  
Spike was still there; so much for *that* plan.  
  
"Spike. . . you. . . I mean. . ."  
  
It was no good. There seemed to be no reasonable argument against his partner's course of action, simply because the situation as a whole seemed to defy all reason. In lieu of an appropriate counterpoint, Jet settled upon an old staple.  
  
"Spike, you dumb shit."  
  
Swearing might not bring Spike to see sense, but it certainly made Jet feel a little better.  
  
Spike sighed, and entered the room proper.  
  
"I knew you'd react like that." he commented.  
  
"Then damn it, Spike, why did you do it?" Jet replied.  
  
Spike walked across the room to the stairs. He mounted the first of them, then turned and sat down on the third.  
  
"I have my reasons." he said.  
  
Jet looked across at his partner, his eyes wide with surprise and annoyance.  
  
"What the hell kind of an answer is that?" he barked.  
  
Spike clasped his hands behind his head, and reclined as far as his uncomfortable metal perch would allow.  
  
"You'll see." Spike replied. "I just thought it would be best if everyone was here to hear this."  
  
Jet let out a despairing moan, and then let his face fall into his hands.  
  
"Oh shit, Faye." he lamented. "She's gonna lay an egg when she hears this."  
  
Jet looked up at Spike.  
  
"Do you realise what you've done?" he asked scornfully.  
  
Spike's only response was to cast a half-hearted glance at his associate.  
  
"You know what happens when Faye gets pissed off." Jet continued. "All our lives are going to be a living hell."  
  
"She'll get over it." said Spike. "Where is she, anyway?"  
  
Jet placed his elbows against his thighs and allowed his dour face to fall into his hands. Sighing deeply, he replied,  
  
"She's in the shower. She got back over an hour ago and went straight there. Hasn't been out since."  
  
Spike smiled to himself. He loved being right.  
  
"Agh! I don't believe this." Jet growled. "Exactly what part of 'catch Stainless Steele' didn't you understand?"  
  
"I understood just fine." Replied Spike. "I just had a better idea."  
  
"You call what you did 'a better idea'?"  
  
"Trust me, Jet, you'll understand when I explain."  
  
Jet huffed sceptically.  
  
"I'll remember you said that when I'm plucking Faye's bullets out of your ass with a pair of pliers."  
  
With that, the cry of rusting hinges rang out from beyond the door of the sitting room. Both Spike and Jet glanced at the door. Jet then allowed his face to fall back into his hands.  
  
"Oh shit." he hissed, and then looked to Spike. "Well, I wish could say it's been nice knowing you."  
  
"Thanks." Spike replied ironically.  
  
The sound of waterlogged slippers flopping against the metal floor of the corridor began to carry into the room, along with the barely audible sound of water dripping upon the same.  
  
Spike leaned back and continued his contemplation of the ceiling. He stared into space for a few moments before a thought occurred to him. Looking up, he said,  
  
"She'd better watch where she's going, or she'll trip over. . ."  
  
"Shit!" came a shrill female voice from down the hallway.  
  
This was accompanied by a number of heavy, unsteady footfalls.  
  
"For God's sake, Ed!" the voice shrieked. "Why are you sleeping on the floor?"  
  
This was followed by a loud, sleepy groan.  
  
"Ugh, forget it." The voice snarled, and then the footsteps began anew. "Why me? What the hell did *I* do to deserve this?"  
  
"Looks like you caught her in a good mood, Spike." Jet said.  
  
Spike did not reply. He just reclined himself again, and tried to look unconcerned. Of course this was little more than a false front put up for Jet's benefit. The fact was he didn't like being harped at by Faye any more than his partner.  
  
Several footsteps and a number of profanities later, Faye emerged into the doorway. She was attired in her familiar shower time ensemble of a short, towelling dressing gown, a pair of blue furry slippers, and a turban loosely constructed from a sodden bath towel. The last of these was still obscuring Faye's eyes as she entered the room.  
  
"Christ, Jet, you will not believe the crappy evening I've had." she said as she ruffled the towel around on hair dripping hair.  
  
Jet looked at Spike resignedly.  
  
"I'll bet." he sighed.  
  
Spike returned the glance, and gave a weak shrug.  
  
"Agh, It was awful." Faye continued. "For a start it was freezing. Piloting the Redtail was like trying to fly a goddamn block of ice. . . no thanks to you."  
  
Spike glanced up at Jet. For an instant, he saw what looked like a self- satisfied smirk flash across his colleague's face. But it was gone just as quickly.  
  
Faye blindly made her way across the room, navigating purely by her familiarity with her surroundings. This just served to reinforce Spike's argument that she had been hanging around the place for way to long.  
  
"Then I got stuck wandering around that warehouse complex in sub-zero temperatures looking for those fights." she complained as she dropped down into the chair opposite Jet. "I swear, that partner of yours has all the direction sense of a deaf fruit bat."  
  
This time it was Jet's turn to glance at Spike. His mop-headed associate briefly adopted an expression of chagrin as his bounty hunting abilities were questioned, delivering a sharp prod to his sensitive ego.  
  
Turning back to Faye, Jet asked,  
  
"How were the fights?"  
  
"How the hell should I know?" Faye questioned in returned. "We missed all but one."  
  
"That's too bad." said Jet.  
  
Faye temporarily ceased her hair-drying toil.  
  
"Are you kidding? That was the good news. I can't imagine what it would have been like having to sit there through the whole thing."  
  
"Not impressed, huh?"  
  
"That's an understatement. The arena was a dump, and the floor was covered in blood from some guy who had the nerve to get shot by my seat. And as if that wasn't enough, the place was packed to the rafters with hard-up losers and syndicate boy racers. God, it was like being at a Spike Spiegel convention."  
  
Jet let out a short laugh.  
  
"Spiegel-Con, 2071." he muttered.  
  
Faye set about drying her hair once again.  
  
"Yeah." she concurred.  
  
There was a brief pause.  
  
"So, is he back yet?" she asked.  
  
Faye's tone was deliberately cool, but that sheet of ice was scarcely enough to mask the undertone of concern in her voice.  
  
Jet looked over at Spike, and Spike back at Jet. Someone had to answer the question.  
  
"Not that I care when he gets back, just as long as he has Steele with him." Faye tacked on hastily, saving both men the trouble. "He'd better not come back empty handed, or I'll make him sorry he was ever born."  
  
Spike emitted a low humph.  
  
"Too late for that." he mumbled.  
  
Another pause.  
  
Faye took hold of the front of her hair towel and pushed it up from over her face. Looking to her left, she peered beneath the damp terry veil that hung from her forehead.  
  
"How long have you been sitting there?" she enquired indignantly.  
  
"Too long." Spike replied; an answer that had a much deeper meaning than either of his fellow bounty hunters could know.  
  
Faye began to wrap her hair up in a towel headdress.  
  
"Well, if you didn't want any complaints then you should have warned me about what it would be like." she stated; eyes closed so as to deter any argument.  
  
Spike had, of course, warned her of the pit falls of the pit fights. But then, there was nothing to be gained from arguing, and if there's nothing to be gained, then it's not worth doing.  
  
"I mean, you could have mentioned that Steele's finishing move would be so. . . messy."  
  
"I thought you said you were used to blood and sweat after hanging out with us." Spike observed.  
  
"I can deal with the blood and sweat." Faye replied. "It's just the brains I'm not used to seeing."  
  
Spike emitted an angry grunt. He had walked right into that one.  
  
"I'm just glad it's over." Faye sighed. "That's the last time I try to mix business with pleasure. . . so, where *is* Steele, anyway?"  
  
There was a profound silence.  
  
Faye looked across at Spike with an expression of concerned curiosity.  
  
"You did catch Steele, didn't you?" she said.  
  
Spike did not reply, and instead continued to stare up at the ceiling. He didn't know quite why he was stalling, as he would inevitably have to break the news that had previously upset Jet so.  
  
"You didn't catch him, did you?" Faye said as she came slowly to the realisation that her ordeal hat been in vain.  
  
Jet leaned back into his seat and folded his arms.  
  
"Here it comes." he murmured.  
  
There was another intermission, filled only by the soft patting of the water that dripped from Faye's hair to the ground.  
  
"You bastard." she muttered.  
  
Then, with teeth gritted and brow furrowed angrily, she leapt from her chair, the force of the action causing her turban to vacate her head.  
  
"You total bastard!" she yelled, holding her tightly balled fists straight down at her sides. "I get dragged out into the arctic, robbed of my cash, and covered in some guy's brains, and you're telling me I went through all that for nothing?"  
  
What ensued was a torrent of abuse as Faye seemed to try and puncture Spike's eardrums with a stream of rather pointed nouns and adjectives. Spike looked reluctantly at Faye. Her face was rendered in a hew of bright red, brought on by a combination of the hot shower and her seething rage; a vision of anger completed by the wisps of steam that now rose from her clammy locks. This ear bending had been a calculated risk on Spike's part, though he was certain that this was not going to be the worst of it.  
  
"Damn it, Spike! Are you even listening to me?" Faye barked.  
  
Spike looked away. He hadn't been listening, and that was something that both he and Faye knew. But then, it wasn't as if it was anything he hadn't heard before.  
  
Faye raised her arms then flapped them down at her side in frustration.  
  
"You know what Spike? Forget it. Just, Forget it."  
  
With a loud tut, Faye turned, plucked her head towel from the floor, and made her way to the door.  
  
"Where are you going?" Jet enquired. "You haven't heard the best part."  
  
Faye looked back over her shoulder.  
  
"Oh, you mean it gets better?" she asked sardonically.  
  
Spike gave Jet a dark look. He knew he would have to tell Faye eventually, but his partner's input was still not appreciated.  
  
Faye turned and placed her fists on her hips.  
  
"Well, come on, Spike." she said. "Let's hear it. What else did you do? Exactly how much worse could this possibly be?"  
  
The modicum of eagerness Spike had had to tell of his actions had evaporated along with the moisture from Faye's hair. He sighed loudly, and settled back into the stairs.  
  
Meanwhile, Faye's anger continued to spiral as Spike continued with his policy of evasion.  
  
"Oh, so it's a guessing game now, is it?" she snapped. "Okay, fine."  
  
She then began to stroke her chin with mock pensiveness.  
  
"Let me think. What course of action could be worthy of the solar system's most dumassed bounty hunter? Now let me see. Did you buy him flowers?"  
  
Spike gave a low growl and furrowed his brow. He didn't enjoy being mocked.  
  
"Or did you give him a manicure? You know, there's nothing worse than rusty cuticles. Ooh, or maybe you invited him over for dinner."  
  
Spike glanced across at Faye. Though the look carried little emotion, the message was received loud and clear.  
  
Yet another silence descended over the room, and slowly, Faye's cast of anger melted into one of shock and horror.  
  
"Oh, Spike. No." she uttered. "You didn't."  
  
"Seconds out." muttered Jet.  
  
"You stupid son of a bitch!" Faye bellowed. "Have you completely lost your fucking mind! You were meant to catch him, not feed him. Damn it, Spike, we can't afford this!"  
  
"She's right, Spike." Jet intervened, trying to represent a more reasonable voice; "We're running low on food as it is. We can't afford to be feeding guests, especially not three hundred pound guests."  
  
Spike sat up. He was finally ready to defend himself.  
  
"So we're short on food." he said. "It's not like that's anything new. And besides, if everything goes off as planned we shouldn't have to worry about food for a while."  
  
"And what if it doesn't go off as planned?" Faye argued. "Then we'll be stuck on Earth with no money, no fuel *and* no food. Then what do we do, Spike? Starve to death?"  
  
A sleepy fourth voice came from the doorway.  
  
"Potty mouth Faye-Faye can eat soap for dinner."  
  
"Oh great." Faye groaned at Ed's arrival. "That's just what I need."  
  
Spike took this opportunity to speak.  
  
"Well maybe if you'd give me a chance to explain. . ."  
  
"No, Spike." Faye slapped him down. "I don't want to hear it. I can feel my self getting stupider just standing here listening to you."  
  
Faye then turned and headed for the door once more.  
  
"Where are you going?" Spike asked; the tarnishes in his usually smooth exterior beginning to show.  
  
"I am going to get dressed, clean the crap out of my gun, and go stand by the door and wait for Steele so I can take the bounty myself. And if any of you think you are thinking of taking a cut then you can kiss my well- proportioned ass."  
  
"Hey, wait a minute!" Spike snapped.  
  
A single finger that Faye flashed over her shoulder was all that met his protest.  
  
"Now hold on just a minute, Faye." Jet said just as Faye was about to barge past the still semi-conscious Edward. "I think we should hear Spike out."  
  
Faye stopped and threw a wrathful look over her shoulder.  
  
"Why the hell should I?" she snarled.  
  
"Look, it can't hurt to just hear what he has to say." Jet argued, arms folded and eyes closed. "You never know, he may actually have had a good idea for once."  
  
Faye frowned sceptically, but Jet continued nonetheless.  
  
"But, if Spike's idea is stupid, and you still want to shoot him, then you have my blessing."  
  
Spike grumbled quietly to himself. Sometimes having Jet's support was something of a mixed blessing.  
  
"Fine." Faye said.  
  
She then marched back into the room and dropped herself down into the chair, facing Spike.  
  
"Maybe I need a good laugh right now. So, come on Spike. Out with it. What's this fantastic scheme?"  
  
Standing up and leaning against the banister of the stairs, Spike took centre stage.  
  
"Are any of you familiar with a guy named Victor Yukawa?" he asked.  
  
"No, Spike." Replied Faye. "Regale us."  
  
Spike's eyes narrowed at the facetious sound of Faye's voice, and looked to Jet for a more sympathetic ear.  
  
"He was a fight promoter back on Mars, the biggest in the business." he continued.  
  
Jet leaned forwards and peered up at Spike.  
  
"So what's that got to do with us?" he asked.  
  
"Yukawa was Steele's manager when he was still with the Red Dragons." said Spike. "He arranged all of his fights and other affairs. The guy virtually ran Steele's life for him. All Steele had to do was go out into the ring and do what he did best."  
  
"Is there a point to this little anecdote, or are you just trying to bore me to death?" Faye sniped.  
  
"Well maybe if you'd shut up for a minute I'd be able to *get* to the point, Faye."  
  
"I don't have to sit here and listen to your mindless drivel, Spike. There are better things I could be doing with my time."  
  
"Don't let me stop you."  
  
It was at this point that Jet stepped in.  
  
"Quit it, you two!" he barked. "You're being obnoxious. Faye, shut up and listen. Spike, get to the point."  
  
Spike and Faye glared darkly at one another, but eventually deferred to Jet's authoritative tone.  
  
"When I was talking to Steele," Spike went on. "He said that some of the guys he used to work with on Mars were going to be at his retirement fight. I think there's a good chance that Yukawa will be the guest of honour."  
  
"So what are you suggesting." Asked Jet.  
  
"I'm suggesting that we use this opportunity to get close to Steele and get access to the event. Then, we nail Yukawa. So, what do you think?"  
  
Jet looked away introspectively as he digested Spike's idea.  
  
Faye, on the other hand, already had her answer.  
  
"I think that mushroom cloud you call a hair cut must extend all the way inside your head as well," she said. "Because that plan is hair-brained even by your standards."  
  
"I don't see you coming up with any plans to make money." Spike retorted.  
  
"That's because we already had a perfectly good plan to make money which you just screwed up. If it wasn't for you we'd be off this dump and on our way to somewhere civilised by now."  
  
"It's an interesting idea, Spike." Jet said, before the old argument could re-ignite. "But what makes you think this Yukawa is worth any more than all those other pit-fight bounty heads?"  
  
"Because pit-fight promoting was just a hobby to him." said Spike. "It was something he did in his spare time between drug trading, gun running and racketeering."  
  
Jet raised his eyebrows as some real interest began to set in.  
  
"I see. Any idea of the bounty?"  
  
"No." Spike replied. "That's where Ed comes in."  
  
Spike looked to the young hacker who was still stood in the doorway, swaying unsteadily from side to side.  
  
Realising that her name had been cited, Ed grinned broadly and began to amble across the room in her usual, ungainly manner.  
  
"Job for Edward, job for Edward, job for Edward." she repeated as she drifted around the sofa to where her computer resided.  
  
She then dropped down cross-legged onto the floor, picked up the goggles that lay at Tomato's side, and pulled them on over her head. Raising her arms, she waved her fingers as if employing some wizardry other than the purely technical, and set about typing frantically on the keypad.  
  
"Well I don't care how much there is on Yukawa's head." Faye stated as she stood up out of her seat. "This whole sorry episode has left a bad taste in my mouth. The sooner we get Steele down to the station and pick up that half-million, the better."  
  
"You're not even staying to hear the numbers?" Jet said into Faye's back.  
  
"Nope. I'm going to get some sleep, then I'm going to. . ."  
  
"Fifteen million." Ed said, cutting Faye off mid-sentence.  
  
This caused the heads of all three bounty hunters to turn.  
  
"The kid works fast." Spike remarked.  
  
"I'm sorry, what was that?" asked Faye.  
  
"Fifteen million Woolongs, on the button." Ed replied.  
  
Spike turned to Faye, and smiled knowingly.  
  
"So how about it, Faye?" he said. "Still want to take in Steele?"  
  
Faye pouted. She was still sceptical about Spike's plan, but fifteen million Woolongs was a lot of money. As always, it seemed that her avarice was about to pull rank on her common sense. This wouldn't have been so bad had it not meant admitting defeat to Spike's argument.  
  
"I don't know." she began, fighting her greed to the last. "This whole plan just seems too stupid to work. I mean, we're going to have five hundred thousand Woolongs just sitting there, staring at us, drinking our beer and eating our bad food."  
  
This statement was punctuated by a grunt of protest from Jet, who had taken exception to this attack on his culinary skills. Faye continued,  
  
"Why shouldn't we just cut our losses and take Steele while we have the chance?"  
  
"Usually I'd be the first to say go for the sensible option." said Jet. "But fifteen million Woolongs is a lot of money. It can't hurt to give it a try, and if things don't seem to be going as planned, then we collect the bounty on Steele instead."  
  
"Yeah, Faye." Spike added. "And just think, your cut alone would be worth ten of Steele. That's a lot of overpriced Jovian fashion."  
  
Suddenly Ed's goggled head popped over the back of the sofa.  
  
"Ed wants a cut." she cried.  
  
"You'll get your allowance and like it." Jet replied gruffly.  
  
Ed whined disappointedly, and sank back down behind the couch.  
  
"Well?" Spike said, goading Faye towards a decision.  
  
Faye sighed in resignation.  
  
"Alright." she said. "I'll play along. But the minute things look like they're not going the way they're supposed to. . ."  
  
"Yeah, we know." Jet interrupted, reluctant to hear any more of Faye's posturing.  
  
"So are we all agreed?" Spike asked, looking at Jet.  
  
"Yeah, we're agreed." his partner replied. "But this operation is your responsibility. If things go wrong, then it's on your head."  
  
Spike gave a tired smile.  
  
"Understood. He'll be here at eight."  
  
"I suppose I should go and get some sleep." Faye sighed. "But you just remember, Spike, I'm doing this under protest. If I get messed around again I'm taking it out of your hide."  
  
Spike rolled his eyes, and looked across at Faye. She was still complaining even now that the plan had been agreed. He peered down at her flatly from the stairs for some seconds before speaking.  
  
"Faye."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You've still got some brains in your hair."  
  
At first Faye's expression was unchanged as her mind processed what had been said. Spike sensed that at some level she knew he was bluffing, but the question was whether she would be willing to take that risk.  
  
Slowly, Faye's mouth broadened into a grimace of horror. In an instant she turned, and scampered out of the room and down the corridor, doubtless headed for the shower once again.  
  
Spike smiled.  
  
"My work here is done."  
  
He then began to descend the few stairs to the floor, clasping his hands behind his head as he went.  
  
"You gonna get some sleep?" Jet asked of his partner.  
  
Spike yawned loudly, then replied,  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Jet allowed Spike to get halfway out the door before speaking again.  
  
"Hey, Spike."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Is everything alright?"  
  
Spike stooped, and looked back over his shoulder.  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"I just get the feeling that something is bothering you about this whole Steele thing. I can tell these things about you, you know."  
  
Spike smiled.  
  
"No, you can't."  
  
He then crossed the threshold of the room and disappeared down the hallway. 


	8. I've Been Expecting You

8) I've Been Expecting You.  
  
Spike drew deeply upon his cigarette. He held the soothingly warm smoke prisoner within his lungs for a little while, allowing it the time to do whatever damage it must, before finally allowing it to escape in a narrow, turbulent stream. The fumes darted through the cool air of the bridge, passing from shadows to light before breaking silently against the polished surface of the window.  
  
The atmosphere on the bridge was always calming, when it was empty anyway. From here, Spike could look out across the medium that carried the ship, be it sea or space, and be alone with his thoughts, should he choose to have any. Right now, he did not wish to think. He simply sat and observed as the ranks of stunted waves marched inexorably across the water's surface, their mail of tiny ripples glittering in the evening sun.  
  
And it was quiet here. No complaining, and no arguing. And moreover, none of the bonding that had so often threatened to draw confidences from Spike that, for all the world, he would rather keep to himself. More than once, he had divulged that little bit too much information, or unveiled that little bit too much emotion, only to feel that little bit weaker for it. This was the nature of his weakness in numbers, bringing a new understanding of why it was best to keep one's enemies closer. At least if you dropped your guard for an enemy, they would have the decency to kill you before you could divulge your innermost secrets.  
  
But none of this was of any concern here. On the uninhabited bridge, the only sounds were the muted hums and chirps of the ship's instruments, soothing and unobtrusive like the strains of distant birdsong.  
  
Spike had spent much of the afternoon here, having benefited little from his brief trip to his quarters. Sleep had refused adamantly to come, leaving him to contemplate the events of the last day. Having been reluctant to do this, Spike had sought refuge on the bridge where the often- stunning vistas rarely failed to take his mind off matters of consequence. Now, he sat at the side of the main console, just out of reach of the dazzling sunlight that plunged dagger-like through the transparent flank of the bridge, its honed tip gradually reaching out for the resting bounty hunter.  
  
A stray thought intruded into Spike's mind. A memory of what Jet had said to him when last they spoke. His partner had speculated that the current hunt was causing him some personal difficulty. Of course, this had only been a guess on Jet's part, but it was an accurate guess.  
  
At first, Spike had felt a little reluctant to turn in a man he had looked up to as a role model for much of his young life. However, this had been short lived. After all, business is business, words to live by, and words by which to silence one's conscience. He had used this motto to quell any doubts he might have had about capturing Steele, as he had done with so many bounties before.  
  
What troubled him now was something that had manifested during his time speaking with Steele. He had previously known precious little of his old hero short of the facts and statistics that proliferated from any successful professional sporting career. Knowledge of the man behind the franchise was scant at best. Of course, Spike's capacity for on-the-spot character assessment had allowed him to very quickly compile a break down Steele's personality, and his talent for playing an unflinching bluff had allowed him to get close to the fighter without arousing any apparent suspicion.  
  
And it was what Spike had found beyond the facade of the remorseless pit- fighter that had been troubling him. Something about the nature of his prey was giving him pause for thought, yet the reason for this lingering doubt remained frustratingly elusive. This was cause for some concern for Spike; a man used to being able to sever cleanly his personal emotions from the task at hand. And with this doubt over the man he had pursued came an uncertainty over his own ability to function in his usual predatory capacity. A doubt that came as a silent spectre that paced in his footsteps, its cold breath rolling over his shoulder as a constant reminder of its presence.  
  
Spike plucked the cigarette from his mouth and rubbed his forehead with his free hand. With a forceful grunt, he drove the rogue thought from his mind. He hadn't come here to think.  
  
A loud beeping arose from the pilot's console. Still not in full contact with the surrounding world, Spike looked about distantly before realising that the noise was emanating from the radar readout behind him.  
  
Standing up, he stretched his arms and legs, and yawned loudly. He then picked up an ashtray that had been sat at his side and drove the smouldering tip of his cigarette into its heat-scarred face. Turning, he leaned over the side of the pilot's position, and peered down at the console through half-closed eyes.  
  
The black circular disk that was the radar display carried a small yellow dot, which flashed in time with the beeping. The dot was slowly traversing the screen from the top right, flanked by numbers denoting speed, bearing and altitude, and was heading for the large spot at the centre of the display that represented the Bebop.  
  
The ship that drew ever nearer was moving at some speed, too quickly for anything larger than a single berth craft in an atmosphere. As such, Spike was certain that this was Steele's ship.  
  
The dot crossed the outermost of the three concentric yellow circles that adorned the screen, causing the console to emit one prolonged, particularly shrill beep before returning to its original rhythm.  
  
"Alright, alright." Spike muttered to the impatiently beeping computer.  
  
Standing upright, he stretched his weary muscles once more, then headed for the door.  
  
***  
  
Faye looked over her shoulder as the room was filled by the sound of the door to the bridge rolling aside. The door struck its frame with a dull metallic thump, and Spike emerged into the room. Upon seeing him, Faye looked down and returned to filing her nails.  
  
"He'll be here soon." Spike said as he began to descend the stairs.  
  
"Great." Faye replied sarcastically. "You get the party hats, and I'll go get the streamers."  
  
"Yay! Dinner guests are here!" Ed cheered, bursting up from the opposite side of the couch where she had been tending to the needs of Faye's toenails.  
  
Leaping to her feet, she trotted across the room and out the door.  
  
"Hey! Where do you think you're going?" Faye called after her.  
  
But Ed was gone, her sharp but fickle mind having found a new distraction to pursue.  
  
"Table for six, Garcon!" she declared as she made her way down the corridor.  
  
Not knowing which of the two starkly contrasting responses to respond to, Spike simply continued down the stairs.  
  
Reaching the floor, he moved up along side Faye. Once there, he leaned over and peered down at the progress of his colleague's seemingly endless cycle of beautifying. Seeing that Faye was wearing her familiar yellow leather two-piece, Spike asked,  
  
"Not getting dressed up?"  
  
"I'm not risking it." Faye replied. "If Steele eats like he fights then we might all need rain coats."  
  
Spike had to give Faye her due. She was a quick learner.  
  
"So, are coming to greet our guest?" he enquired, leaning away as he did.  
  
Faye ceased her filing, and peered up at him.  
  
"Correction: *Your* guest, Spike." she replied sternly. "You invited him, so you can look after him. I'm not getting involved until there's money to be made."  
  
Spike shrugged.  
  
"Suit yourself. But at least try to make a good impression. Remember, there's fifteen million riding on this.  
  
Faye resumed her filing.  
  
"Whatever."  
  
Spike then proceeded across the room and out the door.  
  
***  
  
Jet stared down intently at the contents of the wok through his heavily tinted shades. Carefully he manipulated the distribution of heat through the urgently sizzling bean shoots via deft motions of the pan. Feeling that it was time for a taste check, Jet momentarily ceased his toil and turned to take a fork from the counter beside him. As he did so, he spotted a dark figure standing in the doorway.  
  
"Spike?" he said, glancing over the top of his eyewear.  
  
"He'll be here soon." Spike said, speaking up over the din of the cooking shoots.  
  
"Okay." Jet replied. "I'm almost done here."  
  
Spike leaned forward, and attempted to peer into the wok from the doorway.  
  
"What are you making?" he enquired.  
  
A slight smile materialised on Jet's face. He took great pleasure in discussing his culinary exploits, and doing so was a rare treat on a ship packed with gastronomic philistines.  
  
"Ah, it's a speciality of mine." he stated, proudly. "Bean shoots a la Pousses D'haricot."  
  
Spike cocked an eyebrow.  
  
"Bean shoots a la bean shoots?"  
  
The smile evaporated from Jet's face. Spike had seen through his French dressing. . . if only he actually *had* some French dressing.  
  
"Yeah." he said morosely. "You gotta work with what you got."  
  
"That's not gonna be much if you don't pay attention." Spike said, tipping his head toward the pan.  
  
Jet looked over his shoulder, only to find that there was a sparse column of smoke manifesting above the wok.  
  
"Shit." he hissed, and quickly set about stirring the bean shoots with a spatula he had hastily snatched from the rack to his right.  
  
Carefully, Jet moved the pan off the heat, and then turned down the gas.  
  
"So, are *you* coming to greet the guest?" Spike asked, revising the wording of his earlier question slightly so as not to invite another snipe.  
  
"I'll be with you in a second." Jet replied.  
  
He tossed the bean shoots over a couple more times, set the spatula down, and removed his glasses. He then removed his discoloured apron, a veteran of many years of culinary creativity, tossed it over the back of a nearby stool, and began to make his way out of the humid kitchen into the cool, dry air of the corridor. Stopping half way out the door, Jet turned to Spike.  
  
"Where's Faye?" he asked. "Doesn't she want to meet our visitor?"  
  
"What do you think?" Spike replied.  
  
Jet looked away thoughtfully.  
  
"Guess not." he said.  
  
With this, both men placed their hands in their respective pockets, and marched off side-by-side to the hangar.  
  
***  
  
Taking a step ahead of Jet, it was Spike who entered the hangar first. Upon crossing the threshold, he stopped and stared past the Hammerhead, Redtail and Swordfish to the end of the hangar, where there lay a peculiar scene.  
  
Both Ed and Ein were already positioned at the hangar door. Ein was sat facing the access hatch set into the wall to left of the main door, looking up at it and panting excitedly at the prospect of a visitor. Ed was sat at Ein's side, mimicking the posture and actions of her canine associate, saliva sodden tongue and all.  
  
Jet emerged into the hangar and moved up alongside Spike. The two men looked upon this odd scene for a moment before turning to one another. At first, each seemed to anticipate some kind of comment from the other, but they soon gave up waiting. Everything that there was to say about Ed had already been said.  
  
Spike and Jet began to make their way across the hangar. As they did so, the distant rumble of an approaching engine joined the beat of their feet upon the bulkheads. The sound grew gradually in volume as the pair approached the door, reaching a thunderous crescendo just as they were reaching Ed and Ein. Having settled at a constant level, the sound reverberated through the infrastructure of the ship for a several seconds, causing its alloy skeleton to rattle and creak as if quivering with fear at the horrifying din. After a few moments the noise came to an abrupt end, punctuated by resonating thump of rubber on metal, which caused the floor to momentarily buck beneath the bounty hunters' feet. This was followed by the unhappy whine of aging hydraulics.  
  
"That sounded like quite a parking job." Jet commented. "I hope he didn't scuff the landing deck."  
  
The soft hiss of an air seal being broken, and the squeal of old hinges could be heard from beyond the hangar door, followed shortly after by a single, heavy footfall. The door then closed with a similar squeal and hiss, before the steady pounding of long, deliberate strides arose from outside.  
  
Jet looked to Spike, as the paces grew ever closer.  
  
"And you're absolutely sure about this?" he asked.  
  
"Quit worrying, Jet." Spike replied. "I know what I'm doing."  
  
Jet groaned.  
  
"Great. Now I feel *much* better."  
  
"You worry too much." Spike said.  
  
"Yeah, I worry too much." Jet echoed sarcastically. "I'm just about to let a ruthless killer with metal hands onto my ship. What's to worry about?"  
  
Spike shrugged.  
  
"Well, it's too late to back out now."  
  
The footsteps grew steadily louder until finally, they ended right outside the access hatch. There was a momentary pause, then three firm raps were made against the outside of the door. Sounding more like the strike of a metal implement than knuckles, the sound resonated through the body of the door and dissipated through the ship's hull.  
  
Spike and Jet looked at each other once again. Spike then reached out over the head of the still sitting Ed for the panel at the side of the door, and struck firmly the large red, illuminated button at its heart. There was a thud as the magnetic locks were released, and the door slid aside.  
  
In the doorway was stood Steele. He was as formidable a sight as he had been all those hours earlier, dressed in garb almost identical to that in which he had fought the previous night, plus a black three-quarter-length jacket.  
  
Steele carved-granite face looked down upon Spike with an expression as cool as stone, but then his mouth turned up into the weary smile that Spike remembered from the night before.  
  
The smile, creased and awkward, held a biography's worth of old emotion. Feelings so over used that they had become a worn as their possessor. It was a sight that evoked a pang of sadness within Spike, an experience that made feel him uncomfortably exposed.  
  
"Hello, Spike." he said, reaching forward with his right hand.  
  
Spike reciprocated, and grasped Steele's hand saying,  
  
"Hey, Stainless. Glad you could make it."  
  
"So am I." Steele replied. "I don't get too many invitations. You can probably guess why."  
  
Spike gave an amused smile, and then looked to Jet.  
  
"This is my business associate, Jet Black." Spike said, releasing the fighter's hand. "Jet Black, meet Stainless Steele."  
  
"Hey there." Steele said, and extended the hand once more.  
  
Jet hesitated. As he looked up into the eyes of the guest, something that he was not used to having to do, he could not help but be just a little overwhelmed by the magnitude of the man before him. Suddenly, he felt a sharp prod in his right arm.  
  
"Jet." Spike muttered.  
  
"Oh, sorry." Jet apologised, to both men. "I was a million miles away."  
  
He then reached out and shook Steele's hand, an action taken with just a hint of caution.  
  
"Pleased to meet you. Come on in."  
  
He and Spike then stepped aside, and allowed Steele to enter the ship. Stepping over the lower lip of the doorframe, the fighter had to turn his body to a slight angle to manoeuvre his broad shoulders through the narrow access hatch. As he did so, he looked about the hangar curiously.  
  
"Hmm. Can't say I've ever been on a fishing ship before." mused Steele. "Where do you keep the fish?"  
  
"Fish?" said Jet.  
  
"You know, Jet." Spike said, loudly. "The fish, from all that fishing we do."  
  
Jet looked at Spike in puzzlement, before quickly realising what was going on.  
  
"Oh right, the fish. Man, I don't know what planet I'm on today." Jet chuckled in feigned amusement. "We keep it in the hold downstairs. We don't usually take visitors down there as a rule. You wouldn't believe the smell."  
  
Jet began to waft his hand in front of his face to emphasise his point. Steele, however, was not listening to Jet's rambling cover story. He was more concerned by the fact that there was rather odd-looking child sniffing around his feet.  
  
Jet and Spike both looked down at Ed, who was on all fours making an olfactory examination of the new arrival.  
  
"So, uh. . . who's this?" Steele asked, uncertainly.  
  
At the sound of the question, Ed looked straight up at Steele with her disarmingly bright eyes, causing the behemoth of a man to flinch slightly. A second later she leapt to her feet.  
  
"Edward Wong Hau Pepelu Tivrusky IV, at your service." she declared, taking a theatrical bow.  
  
"Um, hi there Edward." Steele said.  
  
The fighter's stance had suddenly become somewhat defensive. This was something that struck both Jet and Spike.  
  
"Dinner guest person can call Ed, Ed." Edward said, and then grinned broadly.  
  
Steele smiled awkwardly at Ed, and then his attention was grasped by something at his other foot.  
  
Ein was sniffing at Steele's right boot.  
  
"Hey, a dog." Steele said, and knelt down meet Ein.  
  
Reaching out, he placed a friendly hand of the corgi's head.  
  
There was a loud snap, followed instantly by a cry of canine anguish.  
  
Ein, his ears lowered and every hair on his back standing on end, scampered away from Steele, whining pathetically as he went. The little dog raced to the door, and off down the hallway, the frenzied clicking of his claws audible as he fled the scene.  
  
"Ein, where are you going?!" cried Ed, as she ran off across the hangar after him.  
  
Jet watched with shock and worry as dog and hacker vanished from sight.  
  
"Hey! What'd ya do to my dog?" he snapped.  
  
"Sorry about that." said Steele as he raised himself to his feet.  
  
He then began to examine the glinting fingertips of his right hand.  
  
"These things sometimes build up a bit of a static charge."  
  
Spike gave a reassuring smile.  
  
"Don't worry about it, Stainless. He'll be alright." Spike then turned to Jet. "Right Jet?"  
  
Jet glanced at Spike with a sour expression, and then looked back toward the door.  
  
"Right." he sighed.  
  
As distasteful he found it, Jet realised he would have to be tolerant of Steele's foibles for the sake of that hefty bounty. Though, he couldn't help wonder just what else he would have to put up with before this evening was through.  
  
Spike gestured towards the door.  
  
"Right this way." he said. "Hey, can I take your jacket."  
  
"Thanks." Steele said, then removed his ship's sale of a garment, revealing a white vest and a vast armoury of impressive muscles.  
  
Steele draped the jacket over Spike's outstretched arm, and then Spike turned to Jet.  
  
"Here, Jet." he said, thrusting the jacket out towards his partner. "You take this, and I'll show our guest to the sitting room."  
  
Jet scowled at Spike, and grudgingly accepted the jacket. It was at that moment he vowed to himself that he would make Spike pay for this indignity.  
  
"This way." Spike said, and began to move towards the door with Steele at his side, and a rather disgruntled Jet in tow.  
  
***  
  
Spike entered the sitting room, followed closely by Steele who had to duck slightly to avert a collision with the angle of the doorframe. Stepping aside, he allowed Steele to move up alongside him.  
  
Faye was still sat on the couch filing her nails. Her only reaction was to briefly look up at the arrivals before quickly returning to her chore.  
  
Spike let out a silent sigh. He could already tell that Faye was not going to make this easy.  
  
"Stainless Steele," Spike began, his voice already carrying a resignation to failure. "Meet Faye Valentine."  
  
"Charmed, I'm sure." Faye drawled, without so much as a second glance.  
  
"Hi Faye." Steele replied. "Hey, weren't you with Spike at the fight last night?"  
  
Faye's expression went from indifferent to indignant in the space of a file- stroke.  
  
"Yeah, that was her." Spike answered in her stead.  
  
"Yes, I remember. You were a little overdressed." Steele said. "Why didn't you come into the back with Spike?"  
  
Faye gave a muted huff, and replied,  
  
"I had to powder my nose."  
  
"Have a seat." Spike said, gesturing to the chair opposite Faye.  
  
Steele obliged, rounding the chair and then dropping himself into it with a loud grunt. Making himself comfortable, he began to look around at the rather drab surroundings.  
  
Spike made his way around the table, and took a seat on Faye's left.  
  
"So," Steele began, looking to Faye. "Spike was telling me that you work for him."  
  
Faye's eyes shot up at Steele, and then across to Spike.  
  
Spike couldn't help but smirk mischievously. He knew he would be made to regret this later, but right now it was worth it to see the look on her face, knowing that she couldn't retaliate for the sake of that fifteen- million woolong bounty.  
  
"It's funny." he continued. "You don't look like a fisherman."  
  
Faye did not bother to look surprised at this comment. At this point, it wouldn't have surprised her if she were accused of being a circus clown. Gritting her teeth, and replied quietly,  
  
"I wax."  
  
"How was the journey over?" Spike asked, for no other reason than to stop Steele from talking to Faye.  
  
"Long." replied Steele with a tired sigh. "And it's pretty warm around here. The inside of my ship was like a furnace for the last hour of the trip."  
  
"Gee, that's too bad." Faye said.  
  
Spike stole a disapproving look at Faye. This operation was delicate enough as it was, without her bad attitude.  
  
Steele leaned forward, and placed his bare elbows against his lap.  
  
"Yeah, it was tough. But I didn't mind too much. Like I said, there aren't that many opportunities to socialise in my line of work." Steele then looked straight up at Spike, and smiled weakly. "It's lonely at the top."  
  
Spike looked into Steele's eyes as he said this. Those steel-blue discs that had once gleamed with the cold fire of unprejudiced malice now seemed subdued and empty. Lines that ran across his forehead seemed to channel four decades of pain across the contours of Steele's haggard face. He was finding it hard to reconcile the contrast between the unfeeling monster that stalked the pits of Mars and the man that sat before him; so tired, and so visibly old.  
  
"You guys ready to eat." Came a voice from the doorway.  
  
It was Jet. He was stood in the doorway, holding a tray that carried a stack of five bowls and a plate covered over by a dome-shaped lid.  
  
"Finally." Faye said, throwing a relieved look at Jet.  
  
Jet entered the room, accompanied by the sound of rattling cutlery.  
  
"Now, I know that this won't quite what you're used to, Mr Steele," he said as he passed by the dinner guest. "But the. . . uh. . . fishing hasn't been so good lately, so we've had to make a few cut backs."  
  
"Don't worry about it." Steele said. "I'm not much of a gourmet anyway. Oh, and er, call me Stainless."  
  
"Right." Jet uttered softly.  
  
He was beginning to see what Faye meant when she complained of having to fraternise with a walking meal ticket. The whole situation just seemed so fundamentally wrong. But he had to be professional about it.  
  
Setting the tray down on the table, Jet turned to the door.  
  
"Ed!" he yelled past his stiff upper lip. "Dinner!"  
  
He then set about placing a dish and fork before each of those sat at the table.  
  
A short time passed after this summons before the sound of rapid footsteps began to echo from down the corridor. These grew louder and louder until, finally, Ed burst into view. Her enthusiastic sprint almost took her straight past the door, but with several slippery footfalls, she was able to control her momentum and enter the room. Trotting up to the table, she took up a position at one end and dropped cross-legged to the floor.  
  
Jet placed a bowl in front of Ed, in so doing earning himself a beaming grin from the child.  
  
Steele watched as Jet continued to set each place, his eyes strangely transfixed by Jet's actions. There seemed to be a question lingering at the tip of his tongue. After a few moments of quiet observation, he spoke.  
  
"Say, that's a nice arm. Where'd you get it?"  
  
Spike's eyes widened slightly with surprise. Even Faye, who had been busying herself with her filing so as to avoid conversation, looked up at the sound of this question.  
  
Jet ceased all activity, and an awkward hush settled over the room.  
  
Spike tried to make eye contact with Jet, but his partner just stared down at the table distantly. Seeing the fifteen million bounty beginning to slip away, Spike resolved to take action.  
  
"It's, an old fishing injury." he lied then continued in a hushed tone. "He doesn't like to talk about it."  
  
"Oh, right." Steele said. "Sorry about that. It's just that, you don't see many of those on fighters anymore. It's got kind of a retro look."  
  
Jet finally came out of his trance.  
  
"It wasn't meant to be a fashion statement." he grumbled, and continued to set the table.  
  
Spike leaned back into his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. In the space of twenty-four hours, his esteemed guest had managed to alienate two of his fellow crewmembers.  
  
Something in the hallway caught Spike's eye. It was Ein. The little corgi was slinking past the door, head down and ears lowered, keeping one suspicious eye on Stainless Steele.  
  
Three.  
  
Spike took a deep breath. It was going to be a long evening. 


	9. Ticket To Ride

9) Ticket To Ride.  
  
Spike looked down into his bowl. Slowly, he sifted through the few remaining bean shoots, as if searching for the real food that they hid. He had eaten most of them, even though the dry bean shoots were not terribly appetising. Not to say that they were without flavour. The dish did have a certain tang to it, though that may just have been the burnt crust that lined a fair proportion of the shoots.  
  
Spike looked up at Steele. He seemed to be enjoying his meal well enough, having steadily worked his way through it with flawless table manners, proving Faye's fears to be unfounded. Perhaps the novelty of having company over dinner was taking his mind off the unique taste and aroma. Or maybe his tongue was also cast from metal.  
  
Faye had lost interest in her meal long ago. But for a few cursory bites, her portion of bean shoots remained relatively untouched. She chose instead to nourish herself on the warm bottled beer that had been served, a vintage of the week before.  
  
Jet, head chef and restaurant owner, was trying his hardest to set an example. And, for the most part, his attempts to hide his disgust were proving successful, certainly to the extent that only those that knew him best could look past the forced expression of enjoyment to the distaste that lay beneath.  
  
And then there was Ed. She sat before an empty bowl, having recently perpetrated a massacre of the helpless bean shoots, leaving scarcely a broken stem as proof of there existence. It was doubtful that her plate would even need cleaning, so thorough was the desolation of her meal.  
  
Since Steele's faux pas involving the rather sensitive subject of Jet's prosthetic arm, the meal had passed off in virtual silence. Though, oddly, this didn't appear to bother Stainless Steele, who looked content just to be in the company of his fellow human beings. . . and Edward. Nonetheless, the chilly atmosphere was giving Spike cause for concern, since giving Steele the cold shoulder would most probably not be the best way to gain his confidence. He was beginning to anticipate having to end Steele's evening with handcuffs rather than a handshake.  
  
Meanwhile, Ed had found something new to occupy her mind. Her wide eyes were fixed upon Steele as he continued to eat his dinner, her gaze seeming to follow the motion of his fork-laden hand. With each regular, unrushed raising and lowering of the appendage, Edward's whole head would bob up and down, like a dog being teased with its favourite toy.  
  
This had not gone unnoticed by Steele, who now had a cautious eye trained on Edward.  
  
After several minutes of close observation, Ed finally voiced what had been on her mind.  
  
"Dinner guest person hands funny hands." she said whimsically.  
  
Had Spike vocalised what ran through his mind at that moment, his words would have burned the remainder of his meal even worse.  
  
Steele stopped eating and looked down at Ed, and then looked down at his own hand.  
  
"Yeah I, er, guess I do." he said, hesitantly.  
  
Edward still seemed to make Steele uncomfortable. Whether or not Ed realised this was uncertain. But either way, it didn't look as if she was going to back off.  
  
"They're so big and shiny." she said, leaning forward to get a closer look.  
  
Steele responded by lurching away from his admirer.  
  
"Ed, why don't you give our guest some air?" said Spike, trying to rescue the worried Steele and the ailing bounty hunt.  
  
But Edward wasn't listening. She was still entranced by Stainless Steele's unusual accoutrements.  
  
"Dinner guest person's hands must be heavy." she observed. "How do you type with them?"  
  
"Type?" Steele replied. "You mean like, on a computer?"  
  
"Yes. How does dinner guest person use his computer?"  
  
Steele looked down at his bowl, excusing himself from eye contact with Edward.  
  
"I, er. . . I don't know." he said, and continued with a nervous laugh. "I don't really need to type all that much. Never did like computers."  
  
Ed gave a shallow gasp, and stared slack jawed at Steele.  
  
Spike closed his eyes. When would it end?  
  
Edward remained utterly motionless, her position making it difficult for Steele to sit upright again. Unaware of the fact that he had just perpetrated the worst imaginable act of hacker blasphemy, Steele raised his free hand and waved it gently in front of Ed's face so as to bring her out of her trance.  
  
This was all the invitation Ed needed. With a feral growl, she lunged forwards and snapped her teeth around the unsuspecting Steele's fingertips. There was a clink of enamel on metal, and then silence.  
  
As bounty hunters and pit fighter looked on with expressions that ranged from surprise, to amusement, to annoyed resignation, a tear began to accumulate in Ed's right eye. Gently, she released her bite, and raised both hands over her grimacing mouth. She then dropped back into a seated position and toppled onto her back.  
  
"Geez, kid." Steele said softly. "Are you alright?"  
  
"She'll be fine." Faye said, raising her bottle from the table. "Edward has a talent for amateur dramatics."  
  
She might not have liked Steele, but she was damned if she'd let Edward hog all the attention.  
  
"Are you sure? She doesn't look. . ." Steele stopped, and looked up at Faye in bemusement. "She?"  
  
"Ed'll be fine." Spike said. "She's tried to eat worse things than that."  
  
Steele glanced down at Ed.  
  
"Okay. If you say so." he said.  
  
Steele slowly pulled his gaze from the prostrate Edward, and returned his attention to his bowl. Gently, he scooped up the last of his bean shoots, and placed them carefully in his mouth. Upon finishing with this final mouthful, he placed the fork down in the bowl, and leaned back into his chair.  
  
"That was great." he said, and then turned to Jet. "My complements to the chef."  
  
Jet granted Steele a nod of acknowledgement, but little else. He had lost his taste for being placated. Perhaps this was due to his mood, or maybe because he wasn't used to such critical acclaim of his cooking.  
  
Steele looked around, and then yawned loudly.  
  
"Oh, sorry about that." he said as he recovered from the yawn. "Guess I'm not up to these long journeys anymore."  
  
Stretching his arms out above his head, he clasped his hands together and cracked his knuckles. The screech of straining metal momentarily filled the room, causing all but Spike to wince in discomfort.  
  
Faye leaned over to Jet.  
  
"So that's where he gets it from." she muttered.  
  
"Anyways," Steele continued. "I think it's about time I was heading off."  
  
Soft though they were, Spike was certain he could hear four sighs of relief. Regardless of this, he replied,  
  
"So soon? Are you sure you won't hang on for coffee?"  
  
Spike didn't have to look at his colleagues to know the look he was getting.  
  
"No, no." Steele said wearily. "Got to get back. I need my early nights on the run up to my last fight. I do want to live to see retirement, you know."  
  
Another four, subtle sighs.  
  
"If you're sure." Spike shrugged.  
  
"Of course he's sure." Faye interjected. "Don't crowd the man, Spike. If he says he needs his sleep, then who are we to stand in his way?"  
  
Spike shot Faye a disapproving glare.  
  
Steele stood up and stretched his legs. He then turned to Jet.  
  
"Thanks for the meal." he said. "It was great. Don't get many home cooked meals in. . ."  
  
". . . in your line of work." Jet completed the sentence in a gruff tone of voice.  
  
"Yeah." said Steele, his voice denoting that, for the first time, he might be detecting some of the hostility to which he had previously seemed so oblivious.  
  
Jet looked up at Steele.  
  
"Don't mention it." he then turned to Spike. "Spike, would you be so kind as to show out our guest?"  
  
The look on his face suggested a different meaning to those words than the obvious. And it was to be expected, since it looked as if Spike's plan had toppled at the first hurdle.  
  
Spike heaved himself out of his chair.  
  
"Sure thing." he said, resignedly.  
  
Walking around the table, he gestured towards the door.  
  
Steele turned and looked back over his shoulder.  
  
"So long." he said, giving a slight wave of his right hand.  
  
"Bye." Jet replied.  
  
"See you around." said Faye.  
  
Spike left the room, with Steele at his right hand, and set off down the corridor. After a few paces, he just about caught wind of Faye's voice.  
  
"Well, that was hell on Earth."  
  
Spike hoped that Steele's aged ears hadn't picked that up.  
  
***  
  
Spike stepped aside, and allowed Steele to enter the hangar first. He watched as the fighter passed him by. With his back concealed from view, he reached beneath the back of his jacket, and grasped the handle of his pistol, which had been neatly slipped inside his belt.  
  
The handle was warm. He could feel each of the individual grip hatches against his clammy palm, dividing the surface of the metal into dozens of tiny squares. Each one seemed so pronounced against his skin, Spike felt as if he could count them. One, two, three. . .  
  
Spike furrowed his brow in annoyance. He had to stop stalling.  
  
Business is business.  
  
As Steele walked into the hangar, his back turned, Spike began to draw his gun.  
  
Steele stopped.  
  
"Spike?" he said.  
  
Spike froze, having been struck by the possibility that Steele had seen through the façade of the friendly fishing crew. It wouldn't come as any surprise, since none of his crewmates had made their best efforts to maintain the illusion. Or perhaps he had heard the quiet rattle of the gun's components warning him of Spike's betrayal. Exposed by the one thing that he had truly come to rely upon; today had been going that way.  
  
In any case, Spike feared he might have to retire Steele a little earlier than anticipated.  
  
"I was just thinking about something you said the other day." he went on.  
  
As he turned to face Spike, Spike released his grip on his gun, and subtly moved his hand round his hip and into his trouser pocket.  
  
"You said you would've liked to have seen my retirement fight."  
  
"Yeah." Spike said, fighting to contain a self-satisfied smirk.  
  
He knew what was coming.  
  
"Well, I spoke to some of the organisers," Said Steele. "And I was able to get some seats freed up for you. If you still want 'em, that is."  
  
"That'd be great." Spike replied. "But you shouldn't have gone to all that trouble for me."  
  
"Ah, it was no trouble." smiled Steele. "It's the least I can do."  
  
And this was not simply a polite, though empty deflection of praise. Steele meant it. The expression on his face was a portrait of appreciation, the very epitome of gratitude like the tears of a man absolved.  
  
There was that feeling again. What was it about Steele that troubled Spike so?  
  
"Thanks, Stainless." he said, mirroring Steele's sleepy smile.  
  
The first hurdle might have been knocked over, but he was still in the race.  
  
"No problem. So, er, you gonna bring the wife and kids?" Steele asked, glancing briefly over Spike's shoulder.  
  
"This sort of thing isn't really Jet's scene." Replied Spike then, smirking wickedly, he continued. "But I'm sure Faye would enjoy another evening at the fights."  
  
"Excellent." said Steele.  
  
He then reached into the jacket that he had retrieved on his way back to the hangar, and produced a pair of grey, oblong pieces of paper.  
  
"Truth is, I could only get two tickets anyway." he chuckled.  
  
Spike reached out and took to the tickets. Looking down at them, he quickly skimmed the information they held.  
  
The next fight was to be held at an abandoned factory in southern India, mercifully nearby considering the Bebop's current fuel shortage. The event was set for six days time, and was to be held once again at nine pm local time.  
  
"You have to understand, it was hard to get front row tickets at such short notice, even for me." Steele said.  
  
Spike looked up. Then, realising that his studying of the tickets may have been misconstrued, he replied,  
  
"Oh, there's nothing wrong with the seats. Just checking the time against our busy schedule."  
  
"Right." Chortled Steele. "Anyway, I really should be on my way."  
  
"Sure thing." Spike replied, and led Steele off the access hatch once more.  
  
***  
  
As he made his way down the corridor, Spike could hear the unmistakable sound of bitching coming from the sitting room just ahead.  
  
"And what was with that smell?" Came Faye's voice. "He smelled like a goddamn can of Brasso. Not to mention the combats/vest combo. I mean, did the man have any fashion sense at all?"  
  
Spike stopped just outside the door. For a moment, he debated whether or not to bother going in. He was doubtless going to get a hard time, regardless of his success in gaining access to Steele's retirement fight. But he chose instead to bite the bullet, and entered the room.  
  
Faye was stood at the table, looking down at Jet. Jet did not appear to be listening to Faye's blustering. He just sat there scowling, hunched over the table and slowly rubbing the shoulder of his artificial arm. Ed was still on her back, cradling her traumatised bridgework.  
  
Faye already had her mouth open ready to deliver yet another verbal attack on the absent Steele, when she noticed Spike standing, hands pocketed, in the doorway.  
  
"Is he gone?" she asked indignantly.  
  
In her haste to see the back of Steele, Faye seemed to have forgotten all about the planned capture of the same.  
  
"Yeah, he's gone." Relied Spike. "Why? You miss Stainless already?"  
  
"Oh yes, Spike." Faye said, rolling her eyes. "I miss him so. Maybe we should call him back for a slumber party. . . And that's another thing. What was all that 'call me Stainless' stuff? I mean, why couldn't he just have a normal name like the rest of us?"  
  
A pensive look came across Faye's face as she analysed her own words. She then glanced down at Jet, and then across to Spike, and finally, down at Edward.  
  
"Well, like me anyway."  
  
"I'm glad you liked him," Said Spike, sardonically. "Because you'll be going to see him again next week."  
  
He then produced the tickets from his pocket and held them up for all to see.  
  
Jet gave a soft grunt of surprise, and looked up at his partner. Both he and Faye stared at the tickets with some surprise.  
  
"I'll be damned." Uttered Jet. "It actually worked?"  
  
Spike's lip turned up into a skewed smile of conceit.  
  
"Was there ever any doubt?" he said.  
  
Faye stepped onto and over the table, and trotted up to Spike. Snatching the tickets from his hand, she made her own inspection of acquisitions.  
  
"They look real enough." she said, as she looked them over.  
  
"Come on, Faye." Spike drawled. "Is it so hard to believe that my plan worked?"  
  
Faye looked up at him.  
  
"Is that a rhetorical question?" she replied, and looked back down at the tickets. "Well, at least we're not too close to the front this time."  
  
"I've gotta hand to you, Spike." Jet said. "I really didn't think you'd be able to pull this off."  
  
"You should have a little more faith." Spike replied.  
  
"Hey, maybe we could sell these." Faye thought out loud. "I bet we could make a killing over the Internet."  
  
With a lightning fast motion, Spike retrieved the tickets from Faye's grasp.  
  
"Hey!" she barked, finding herself staring down at thin air.  
  
"Sorry, Faye." Spike said, as he walked by her. "But these are too important to pawn off."  
  
"Oh, that's right." Faye sneered. "I forgot that *Stainless* is your idol. Wouldn't want to miss the big retirement fight."  
  
Spike wasn't about to rise to this bate. Not again. Walking up to Jet, he handed the tickets over to him.  
  
"This one's in a factory in Southern India." said Spike. "We should probably try to find a floor plan. Once we've got that, it should be pretty easy to anticipate the security set up."  
  
"Good thinking." Jet replied, looking over the tickets. "I'll get Ed on it right away."  
  
"Oh no you don't." Faye butted in. "Ed still has some unfinished business, don't you Ed."  
  
Faye looked down at the young hacker. Edward did not respond, however. She just lay there, with a tear in her eye and her hands over her mouth.  
  
With a growl of frustration, Faye plucked a small jar of nail varnish from the corner of the table. She then knelt down and grabbed Ed by the left ankle. Standing, she proceeded to march across the room to the door, dragging Edward across the ground behind her. Faye stepped over the bottom lip of the doorway, and dragged Ed across it indelicately a moment later. Remarkably, Ed's poise remained completely unchanged as her head bounced up over the lip and plonked down onto the floor of the corridor.  
  
"See you in six days." Faye said as she and Edward vanished from sight.  
  
Jet and Spike looked back at one another.  
  
"Maybe we *should* leave the planning for another time." Spike said, wearily. "I don't think any of us have slept much in the last couple of days."  
  
"I can live with that." Yawned Jet. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm kinda glad your friend didn't stay too long."  
  
"Maybe it was your cooking." Spike retorted.  
  
"Hey. I make the best damn dry bean shoots this side of Io."  
  
"That's because everyone else this side of Io has soy sauce."  
  
The two men glared at each other, and then surrendered to a bout of tired laughter. Spike then turned for the door.  
  
"Catch you later, Jet."  
  
Jet looked down at his hands clasped across his lap.  
  
"Spike?" he said.  
  
Spike had a feeling he knew what was coming next. It was a moment he had been dreading.  
  
"You were right, you know." Jet continued.  
  
"'bout what?"  
  
"About me not being able to read your feelings."  
  
Spike sighed quietly, and turned to face Jet.  
  
"You're a closed book to me, Spike. And that's fair enough. God knows we all have our secrets."  
  
"Is there a point here, Jet?"  
  
Jet considered skipping to the point, but he felt that this needed explaining fully if he were to avoid earning Spike's resentment; if indeed, it could be avoided.  
  
"I admit, I was just guessing before when I said there was something bothering you. You seemed a little uneasy, but we've all been on edge lately. But then I saw you with Steele, the way you looked at him."  
  
"So what, you're saying I'm in love with him now?" Spike scoffed.  
  
"I'm serious, Spike." Jet stated. " The way you act around him worries me. I mean, at first, I thought it might be some kind of mortality thing, and that it was bothering you to see your childhood hero having aged so much. But then, death never seemed to bother you much before. Then I thought that it might just be pity for an old man, but pity never seemed to be your style."  
  
Spike turned for the door.  
  
"I didn't ask for this psychoanalysis, Jet." he said as he walked away. "I don't know why it is that everyone is so obsessed with knowing what makes me tick."  
  
Jet leapt out of his chair.  
  
"Damn it, Spike! Stop being so egocentric! Believe it or not, this isn't just about you!"  
  
Spike stopped in the doorway.  
  
"Could've fooled me."  
  
"Spike, you've got to remember. There are five of us living on this ship. Now, we can squabble and joke about our situation, but the fact is, it is extremely serious. The Bebop scarcely has enough fuel left to sail out of the harbour, and the Swordfish, Redtail and Hammerhead have enough for one or two short-haul flights, max. We've got almost no food left, no money to get more, and no refuelling station for three hundred miles. You might say that there's nothing new about any of that, but this is as bad as I can remember things getting. If we don't catch this next bounty, we're screwed."  
  
"So what?" Spike replied. "It's not like we're after Steele anymore."  
  
"Maybe not now." said Jet. "But if we can't take in Yukawa, then we have to keep Steele as a back up."  
  
"It won't come to that."  
  
"I'm sorry, Spike, but I don't share your confidence. Yukawa is going to be surrounded by all kinds of syndicate security. Now, maybe Faye is greedy enough to try and pull this stunt for the money, but the only reason I agreed to it is because our situation is so desperate, and that half a million on Steele may still not be enough. I don't know whether you've noticed, but ship fuel isn't getting any cheaper."  
  
"Look, Jet." Spike said. "If you want me to promise not to let Steele go if we catch him, fine. You have my word."  
  
Jet fell back down into his seat and gave a sigh of exasperation. He still didn't get it.  
  
"What happens *after* we catch Steele isn't what concerns me." he said. "It's whether or not we can rely on you for the chase should we have to catch him. You're an important part of this team, Spike. In some ways, maybe even the most important. I have to know I can count on you should worst come to worst."  
  
Spike turned to face Jet.  
  
"Alright then, fine." he said. "You want it in writing that I won't let Steele go? Go get me a pen."  
  
"No Spike." Jet sighed.  
  
It wasn't working. It was seemed as if Spike was going out of his way to be adversarial.  
  
"I just want you to tell me what's bothering you. I want to understand."  
  
Spike took a couple of steps back into the room. Leaning forward slightly, he stared straight into Jet's eyes with a look utterly devoid of feeling, and asked,  
  
"Do you really think I'm going to tell you?"  
  
Jet stared back defiantly, but he knew that this battle was already lost.  
  
"No. But I had hoped you might reconsider. If not for yourself, then for the sake of the team."  
  
Spike stood upright turned to leave once again.  
  
"We're not a team, Jet."  
  
"Oh, is that right. Then what are we, Spike?"  
  
"We're just a bunch of guys, stuck on a ship together, who just happen to be after the same thing."  
  
"Spike . . ."  
  
"What was it Faye said? Just a bunch of hard up losers and a syndicate boy racer."  
  
Jet stood up out of his chair.  
  
"Spike, wait."  
  
Spike walked to the door. Raising his right hand into a feeble, backhanded wave, he said,  
  
"See you in six days, Jet."  
  
Jet watched helplessly as Spike melted into the shadows of the hallway. Sighing, he sat back down, and stared at the cluttered table before him.  
  
By speaking with Spike, Jet had hoped to alleviate his fears over his partner's fitness to continue on this mission. Instead, it had only served to bring home just how serious the problem was. At worst, he had expected Spike to just wave away his inquiry with a cheeky smirk and a back handed remark. But the defensive nature of Spike's reaction just served to confirm Jet's greatest fear. Not only did he not know what was troubling Spike, but Spike didn't seem to know either. And as long as this was the case, the problem was not likely to be resolved.  
  
"Spike." he muttered. "You're gonna be the death of us all."  
  
And what worried Jet most was that, the way things were going, that might just turn out to be the case. 


	10. Dance Macabre

10) Dance Macabre  
  
Spike pushed the swinging door aside and squeezed past several punters who were heading in the opposite direction. His eyes narrowed slightly at the oppressive smell of sweat, but soon this was replaced by the more familiar smell of second hand cigarette smoke.  
  
Though the sound of the crowd permeated the whole building, including the men's room, the contrast between the noise levels outside the arena and inside was immense. In his years as a member of the Red Dragons, Spike had seen many pit-fight events. But none compared to this.  
  
As he emerged at the rear of the bleachers, the intimidating sight of a plunging cliff-face of writhing bodies confronted him. The whole building, its body eviscerated of its mechanical innards, had been transformed into a post-apocalyptic coliseum; a mighty temple constructed in honour of humanity's unquenchable thirst for the blood of its fellows. The walls echoed with the dirge of worshippers singing the praises of the god's of the ring, and ground shook as columns of weary pilgrims trudged up the great mountain of humanity, that they might beseech lady luck and plead for her favour.  
  
And at the heart of it all lay the ring. It was no different from any other ring Spike had seen. It was no bigger or smaller, no different in shape or depth. However, it served as a collecting dish for the greatest outpouring of violence, brutality and bloodshed that the bounty hunter had ever witnessed at such an event. Four straight hours celebrating every conceivable means by which a man's life could be ended at the bare hands and feet of another.  
  
Moving forwards, Spike began the treacherous journey down the stairs to his seat. The mountainously steep path was littered with obstacles, ranging from the thin snow-like sheet of cigarette ash, to the thick fog of smoke and dust that swirled through the altitudinous air. The crowd of fellow climbers who were also trying to negotiate the slope compounded all of these hazards.  
  
A particularly careless mountaineer brushed against Spike as he hastily made his way to the summit. In so doing, he spilled a generous amount of the tepid beer he carried in a paper cup down the left lapel of Spike's jacket. Spike cursed to himself as the spectator was lost amid the heaving crowd, escaping reprimand for his carelessness. He wondered why he had even bothered to re-enter the arena. It wasn't as if he would be able to stay to watch the fight.  
  
The reason for the in- and out-flux of spectators was the intermission that had been called minutes earlier. It marked the final break in proceedings before the final, climactic battle of the night - the main event, Sabre Khan versus Stainless Steele. In the fifteen minutes that had been allotted, the crowd had time to place a bet, by a drink, go to the bathroom, what ever they saw fit before the bout began. And that was just what they were doing. The lack of organisation was unsurprising considering the vanishing act that had been performed by the stewards once the penultimate fight ended. Doubtless they too were partaking of the listed activities, adding to the chaos rather than quelling it.  
  
Finally Spike reached his row, and began to force his way past the seated audience members. This task was made a little easier by the fact that most seemed to have vacated their seats for the time being. Nonetheless, Spike still received a number of prods and pushes along the way, some coming in some rather disconcerting places. What made it all the more annoying was that, for all his toil, he would not be seated for long.  
  
The plan that had been laid out had precluded Spike's watching the fight. He might just as well have remained outside the arena, but he felt inclined to at least see Steele before the fight began. Doubtless his entrance would be spectacular. At least then Spike would be able to say he had seen it; that he had been there on the night.  
  
Reaching his chair, Spike pushed down its spring-loaded seat and sat down. The chair to his left was vacant, and had been the one allotted to Faye. She had been present for the first few fights, but had soon *tired* of the proceedings, and had left to make some final preparations for the sting. Or so she said. More likely, the matches had proven all together more brutal than even her hardened stomach could take. She couldn't be blamed for that. After all, she couldn't list brutality on her CV as a previous occupation, unlike some.  
  
Leaning back, Spike inserted his hand into his jacket and checked for the presence of his communicator. A necessary action, as not all prods and pushes are as innocuous as they seem. It was, of course, still there, and set to vibrate when activated should Jet call to give the word.  
  
Jet's call to commence the operation would be virtually the only time Spike and his partner had spoken in almost a week, aside from the rather frosty proceedings of the planning sessions. Since their confrontation shortly after Steele's departure from the Bebop, the two men had been engaged in a cold war of sorts. Not that they were on the cusp of further conflict. Rather, the pair had been locked in a bitter struggle with their respective egos, each too proud to just let the matter drop with a simple exchange of apologies.  
  
Spike grunted, and ran a hand through his hair. Apologise indeed. It wasn't as if *he* had been the one prying into Jet's psyche. What Jet had done had been contrary to an unspoken rule, nay, law that had bound them since they had first become associates. Neither man was to interfere in matters of the other's past, nor were they to try assessing one another's feelings. Such things were unbecoming of professionals - of men.  
  
Spike relaxed a little. One of the things he had determined during the many hours spent pondering his place in the comedy of errors that was now playing, was that Jet was not really to blame. It was this concept of *team*, this idea that he should just drop everything and act for the greater good. Things were so much simpler when it was just he and Jet against the solar system. There was a very good reason why most bounty hunters worked solo, and why so many of them had a better track record than 'Team Bebop'.  
  
But again, it wasn't Jet's fault. Sure he had accepted the newcomers when Spike would have happily left them to their own devices, or even turned them in. And indeed, Jet had tried his best to integrate them into ship's life while Spike would have just as soon ignored them until they went away. But that was just a part of who Jet was, a nice guy in a nasty business.  
  
The minutes passed, and gradually people began to return to their seats. As this slow process continued, the lights that glared down from above began to fade, leaving only the ring below well illuminated. The excited chatter that filled the arena faded to an ominous hum, and then finally fell into almost total silence. There was a brief pause, then a figure, too distant to be fully resolved, emerged from within the stands beneath Spike's feet. Slowly and deliberately, he paced to the centre of the ring. There he stopped, and stood silently with microphone at his side.  
  
He stood, and waited. There was no announcement and no movement. He just waited. Then, as if cued by the bemused murmurings that were beginning to propagate through the crowd, the ring announcer began to raise his right hand towards his mouth. There he held the microphone, allowing the anticipation to grow yet further. After several moments allowing the surrounding stew of humanity to reach a simmer of excitement, he spoke.  
  
Spike felt the communicator in his pocket begin to vibrate.  
  
"Shit." he rasped, cursing the bad timing.  
  
A couple of spectators in the row in front looked over their shoulders disapprovingly. Spike ignored this, and grudgingly removed the communicator from his jacket and depressed the answer button.  
  
"Yeah?" he stated, making little effort to hide his displeasure.  
  
"Spike." Jet replied coolly. "Faye reports that Yukawa is back in the VIP box."  
  
Spike glanced across at a set of illuminated windows in the wall above the stands to his right. The foreman's office-cum-VIP room was where Yukawa had spent the evening, a piece of information that had not been hard to obtain due to the hum of gossip that had permeated the pit-fighting world ahead of the event. It was unusual for there to be such luxurious facilities at the fights, but then, this was an unusual fight.  
  
"She's ready to go when you are." Jet continued.  
  
He then paused, and his eyes narrowed.  
  
"Spike, where are you?"  
  
"Nowhere interesting." Spike replied distantly.  
  
"You're not back in the arena are you?" Jet asked.  
  
"Look, I'll be out in a minute." Spike assured him, his eyes flitting back and forth between the screen of the communicator and the ring below. "Just tell Faye to sit tight."  
  
"Spike, you were meant to be ready to back Faye up!" Jet barked. "We only have as long as this fight lasts to make the pick-up before security gets back to normal."  
  
This audible outburst earned Spike several more indignant looks. However, he was oblivious to all of these as he attempted to assimilate both the words of his partner and those of the ring announcer.  
  
"Spike! Spike, are you listening?" Jet said.  
  
"Yeah, I heard you." Spike sighed. "Tell Faye I'm on my way."  
  
He then deactivated the communicator and slid it back into his jacket.  
  
Or course, Jet was right. The temporary relaxation of security would only last for the duration of Steele's match, and that probably wouldn't be very long. During this time, most of the event security crew were expected to abandon their posts to watch the fight. Spike had been a low ranking syndicate member himself once, and as he recalled, one got what one paid for.  
  
Reluctantly, Spike stood up and began to make his way back along the row. As he went, he listened to the ring announcer as he went about his work.  
  
"And so, we come to the final event of the evening. And not only that, but the final event of this sport's longest and most illustrious career. This battle will be one of a proportion not seen in pit-fighting since the golden age of the early colonies, when the shackles of law could not restrain the primal spirit of the systems mightiest warriors. But surely, it is not the fight itself, nor the outcome that is important. This fight transcends the bounds placed around all lesser bouts. And, in the years that follow, you will be able to say that you were there, that you witnessed the final hurrah of pit-fighting's greatest legend. Truly, this is a battle not to be missed."  
  
Spike grunted angrily.  
  
"Don't remind me."  
  
***  
  
Faye peered around the corner gingerly. The corridor was empty, save for two stewards stood outside a door in the wall opposite her position, about ten meters along. The hallway ran off a further twenty or so meters, terminating at a T-junction. Neither one of the guards appeared to be in a terribly good mood. They just stood side-by-side in silence, both pouting like spoilt children.  
  
Faye withdrew back into her lonely section of corridor. Leaning back against the cold masonry, she blew aside a couple of strands of hair that had strayed across her face.  
  
She had heard the whole rigmarole that preceded the slump in security. What had begun as a hushed argument between the small army of stewards that had lined the corridor outside Yukawa's executive box had culminated in a drawing of straws that had resulted in all but two stewards deserting their posts to watch the fight. There had been some bickering and empty threats, as would be expected among a salivating pack of men, but ultimately the two that now remained had surrendered to their fate.  
  
Faye looked down to the purse that hung at her side. She expected to feel the vibration of her communicator at any moment - two rings to signify the commencement of the operation. She had expected the signal to come earlier, but was in little doubt as to the reason for the hold up. Faye had suspected that Spike's peculiar attitude towards Steele would end up interfering with the mission. And she was certain that it was a sentiment that was shared by Jet. Though she hadn't bared witness to it herself, she got the distinct feeling that the two men had exchanged words on the subject, the key piece of evidence being that they had scarcely spoken to each other in almost a week.  
  
Faye shook her head, cursing herself for not forcing Spike to accompany her out of the arena. At least that way she'd have been able to keep an eye on him. But no, He wanted to stay and watch the fights. What made it worse was the attitude he had taken when she told him she was leaving, suggesting that she didn't have the nerve to stay and watch the carnival of mindless violence that he so revelled in. He was lucky she hadn't shoved her foot in his mouth.  
  
There was a pause in Faye's train of thought. Had he actually said any of that? No, he hadn't. He hadn't said anything. All he had done was look at her. It was all in that look.  
  
For the life of her, Faye could not work out how he did it. She couldn't see how it was possible for a man who said so little to say so much. There were times when she'd thought she could barely get a word in edgeways, only to realise later that she had been the only one talking. He almost never opened his mouth, and yet it was as if it was never shut.  
  
"How does he do that?" Faye muttered to herself.  
  
Suddenly, there came the sound of a pistol being cocked, followed quickly by the sound of a second.  
  
"Who's there?" a voice barked from around the corner.  
  
Faye's eyes widened and her mouth grimaced as she realised she had blown her cover.  
  
"Shit." she hissed under her breath.  
  
He wasn't even present, and still Spike was causing trouble. But it was too late for blame now. There'd be plenty of time for that later.  
  
Faye Steeled herself. She would have to initiate the operation earlier than planned, but she was confident that she would be able to draw the process out long enough for back up to arrive. Surely, the signal to initiate the operation couldn't be that far off.  
  
Hearing one of the stewards begin to pace towards her position, Faye took this as a queue to begin. She took a calming breath then, letting her right hand lead she stepped out from her hiding place.  
  
As she emerged she was confronted by the sight of the stewards, stood before her with firearms raised.  
  
"Uh, hi there." she said in her faux ditzy voice. "I was wondering if you two boys could show me to the little girl's room."  
  
The two stewards looked at Faye, and then at each other. They did not approach, choosing to hold their position outside the door.  
  
Feeling that they needed a little more convincing, Faye continued,  
  
"You see, I just popped out of the arena to powder my nose, and I got lost. You know us girls and our terrible sense of direction."  
  
The last few words almost stuck in her throat, but she had to try and lure the stewards away from the door.  
  
The stewards looked at one another again, and then both lowered their guns cautiously. The pair conferred quietly with one another for a moment before the one on the right, a lanky blonde figure, spoke.  
  
"Alright. My friend here'll take you there." he called, tipping his head towards his shorter, stockier colleague. "But be quick about it."  
  
Faye clenched her teeth, as that was not the response for which she had hoped.  
  
"Oh, I um. . . I was kinda hoping you would both go with me." she said.  
  
She had to fight the urge to cringe. Faye had suspected from day one that this part of the plan had a marginal chance of success to say the least, but had thought better of questioning Jet at the time because of his mood.  
  
The two stewards looked at each other once more, and then again back at Faye, only this time with a look of suspicion.  
  
"Why both of us?" the shorter of the two asked.  
  
Faye took a second to think, and then replied,  
  
"Well, it just isn't safe for a lady to be walking around a place like this on her own. I mean you've seen the kind of weirdoes that come to these events. I just thought I could use the extra protection."  
  
Again, Faye found it difficult to play the part of a damsel in distress. But she persevered, for the sake of the bounty that now lay within spitting distance.  
  
Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, the stewards did not seem to be buying it. Their expressions were becoming more distrustful by the second, and for a while, the group beheld one another in an awkward silence.  
  
Suddenly, a loud beeping burst from Faye's purse.  
  
Before Faye could curse herself for forgetting to set her communicator on silent, both spooked stewards flung their guns forwards. Faye just managed to duck back into her old hiding place as the first volley of gunfire was released, her cheek stinging as it was peppered by the debris that spattered from the plastered wall as the projectiles ploughed into it.  
  
"Shit!" she yelped, taken aback by the extremity of the stewards' reaction.  
  
Hastily she opened her purse, thrust in her hand in grasped the first object it came in contact with. Extracting it, she found it to be the communicator, which had since ceased beeping after the planned two rings. Grimacing angrily, she tossed it out into the corridor, only to see it erupt in a hale of components as it was torn apart by panicked gunshots. Reaching into her purse once more, she removed what she was certain was her gun. Cocking it, she quickly thrust her arm around the wall and pulled the trigger twice without looking to see at what she was shooting.  
  
The second shot was followed by a muted gasp, and then a dull thump and the sound of metal skittering across the ground.  
  
"Yes." Faye muttered to herself triumphantly.  
  
There was a brief lull in the crossfire. Faye took a moment to rub her right wrist, which was throbbing slightly from the bucking of her pistol. Tempted to see which of the two stewards she had hit, she began to lean towards the cusp of the wall.  
  
A gunshot rang out, and Faye hastily withdrew as another chunk of rotting plaster disintegrated only inches in front of her face. This was followed by a second shot, and then by the creak of an opening door. The subsequent volley was even more intense than before as it seemed several colleagues had joined the surviving steward. The patter of feet hurriedly retreating the scene accompanied the rejuvenated crescendo of shots.  
  
Faye's heart sank as she realised that Yukawa was on the move. Tensely she stood with her back pinned to the wall, resigned to the fact that she would be unable to prevent his escape. As she awaited the opportunity and the nerve to return fire, she uttered softly,  
  
"Where are you, Spike?"  
  
***  
  
Spike sprinted down the corridor with gun unsheathed, the sound his flatfooted strides ricocheting from the dry walls and ceiling. What he had thought at first to be the bangs and crashes of a spectacular pyrotechnic display, he had shortly after realised to be gunfire. The din was drawing closer with each hurried footfall, carrying from around a left turn in the corridor only a few short meters away. This was unmistakable sound of a job being botched.  
  
Spike made a tight turn at the junction, almost losing his footing on the dusty ground. As he began to sprint down the second stretch of corridor, a group of around half a dozen rushed-looking men emerged from a hallway that joined his on the left. All but one were dressed in the ornate, flowing dress coat of syndicate gangsters, while the remaining individual, noticeably shorter than the rest, was clothed in a black suit. The stewards were arranged with one taking point, two more flanking the suited man, and the last pair taking up a rear guard position; a classic defence formation. Though Spike could not get a clear view of the suited man's face, he had a strong suspicion that it was Victor Yukawa.  
  
The group sprinted into Spike's corridor. The guard at point instantly turned to his left and headed away from Spike, followed closely by two of his colleagues who were ushering Yukawa along with them. The trailing two emerged backs first into the corridor, their guns trained on some target that lay in the direction from which they had come. The nearest of two turned to make a hasty check of the corridor behind the receding entourage, and it was then that his gaze fell upon Spike.  
  
There was a moment of hesitation as the steward stared at Spike, apparently having not expected to actually find someone standing there.  
  
A heartbeat passed. All around seemed to fade to black, leaving only Spike and the steward staring at one another across the void. A second heartbeat, and Spike's keen eyesight detected a modicum of movement from it's subject. The darkness was lit briefly by a muzzle flash, which was accompanied by a muted thud that resonated through Spike's arm and dissipated through his tensed chest. The third heartbeat saw the steward topple to the ground as the life fled his body and vanished into the night.  
  
The second rear guard steward glanced down at his fallen comrade, and then turned and fled behind the remainder of Yukawa's entourage.  
  
Spike looked along his raised right arm and over the sight of his pistol as the group took flight. They were headed for a fire exit that lay only ten meters down the corridor from where they had emerged, and would soon escape if Spike did not take action. Taking a couple of long, purposeful strides forwards, he released a second shot.  
  
The nearest steward lurched forward with a quite gasp. His arms monetarily flailed, as if trying to grasp at his soul as it departed his body, and then he collapsed to the ground. The remainder of the group did not look back.  
  
Reaching the door, the point guard flung it open and stood by as his colleagues and their charge passed him by.  
  
With his targets now moving about quite vigorously, and at some range, Spike was unwilling to chance a shot at another steward. The risk of hitting Yukawa was too great, and there was no claiming a bounty on a corpse. Keeping his gun arm extended, Spike began to sprint down the corridor towards his quarry. Yukawa quickly melted into the darkness however, disappearing beyond the fire escape door.  
  
The last of the stewards began to back around the door. As he did so, he held out his pistol ant took aim at Spike. Spike dodged and weaved, his ears stinging as the bullets whistled by, like angry insects threatening to bite. The steward continued to fire, but his frantic efforts were continually thwarted by Spike's uncanny judgement of trajectory and his keen survival instincts.  
  
Suddenly, the monotonous beat of combusting gunpowder gave way to a series of inert clicks. Realising that he was out of ammunition, the steward hurriedly began to draw the door shut. Spike raised his pistol once again and took a pot shot, only to see it spark frustratingly from the metal surface of the door.  
  
With his quarry departed, Spike's senses soon began to process the remaining stimuli. He could now hear a second gunfight, which was going on around the corner of the junction just ahead. Quickly, he trotted up to the corner and peered round. There he saw three stewards stood with their backs to him, pouring bullets at a target that lay just out of sight. For an instant, a hand bearing a black pistol emerged from a corridor that ran off to the right of where the stewards stood. The stewards flinched slightly as the hand took a blind shot, and then continued their assault as the hand withdrew.  
  
"Faye." Spike sighed, resignedly.  
  
Spike stepped out into the open and raised his gun. Three rapid shots reverberated from the walls of the corridor and each of the stewards, from left to right, lurched forwards. All three tumbled to the ground as the life was driven from their bodies, the last of them falling before the first had even hit the ground.  
  
A couple of seconds of silence ensued before the eerie calm drew Faye out from her cover. Cautiously, she peered around the corner to investigate the scene.  
  
"You coming, or not?" Spike called to her.  
  
Faye's disembodied face scowled indignantly.  
  
"I was handling it." she replied.  
  
"What ever you say, Faye." Spike said, then he turned and resumed his pursuit of the bounty head.  
  
As he approached the door of the fire escape, he reached into his jacket and took out his communicator. Spike pressed the hail button, and raised the unit to his face.  
  
"Jet." he said. "Jet, are you there?"  
  
Spike pulled the door open and emerged at the top of the stairwell.  
  
"I'm here." came Jet's voice. "Go ahead Spike."  
  
"Jet, they're headed your way." Spike said as he peered over the railings and down the centre of the spiralling stairway. "They'll be coming out of the fire escape in the West wall any second."  
  
"You let 'em get away, huh?" Jet said flatly.  
  
"We don't have time for this Jet." Spike scolded as he began to descend the stairs two at a time.  
  
"Okay, okay. I'll be there in a few seconds."  
  
"Right." said Spike before hastily cutting the transmission.  
  
Inserting the communicator into his inside pocket, he continued down the stairs. Though he could see little in the poorly lit stairwell, he was able to judge from the distant echo of footsteps that Jet had about two storeys to get into position before Yukawa made his get away.  
  
***  
  
The door in the side of the building burst open, and a hand full of people spilled into the humid night air. Almost instantly all four threw their forearms up across their faces and cowered from the brilliant light and searing heat they encountered upon emerging.  
  
Jet granted himself a conceited smirk as he watched from the comfort of the cockpit as the men reeled and stumbled in the hot, dusty gale that was being kicked up by the Hammerhead's engines, and floundered in the piercing glare of her spotlights. As suspected, the every-man-for-himself rule was being evoked among the lesser syndicate members, who were fleeing any which way they could. On the other hand, the older, less supple Yukawa was having trouble just staying on his feet. Desperately the aged gangster staggered around in the blinding stream of light, like a moth being scorched by candlelight.  
  
Briefly taking his attention away from Yukawa, Jet keyed in a couple of commands to the Hammerhead's antiquated onboard computer. Then, looking ahead, he gradually eased the steering column forwards, causing the ship to descend and coast slowly forwards, almost pinning Yuakawa to the door that had blown shut behind him. No doubt Spike and Faye would not be far behind, and would be only too happy to help the old fishing ship reel in the one that almost got away.  
  
Jet chuckled to himself.  
  
"What would they do without me?"  
  
At that moment, a loud cough resonated through the hull of the hammerhead. This followed by a thunderous bang, and a prolonged, strangled sound of an engine in grave distress. Within moments, the whole cabin began to quiver and quake around Jet, its various components crying out in a panicked chorus of rumbling and rattling.  
  
Jet knew these symptoms. These were the afflictions of a decade old ship being starved of fuel.  
  
But that couldn't be. Jet had checked the fuel gauge right before he had left the Bebop, and again halfway to his destination. The last reading was fifteen percent, just enough to get there and back and leave something over for a trip to the nearest police station and fuel depot.  
  
Jet glanced down at the fuel gauge again. In the dim, yellow light of the cockpit, Jet was just able to read the display. Fifteen percent. But surely, that couldn't be either.  
  
Jet raised his artificial hand in a tightly balled fist, and slammed down against the dash. The sound of the impact briefly rose above the struggling of the engine and the rattling of the cockpit. In response, the dimly luminescent needle shook, and then plummeted down the gauge before striking the lower end of the scale with a soul-destroying finality.  
  
E.  
  
The fuel tank was empty.  
  
"What?!" Jet shouted.  
  
He raised hand once again in readiness to test for another erroneous reading. But before he could call the bluff of the fibbing scale, the ship began to lurch and falter violently.  
  
Jet barked and spat every profanity he could think of as he was buffeted around in his uncomfortable pilot's chair. Grabbing the steering column, he hauled backwards in an effort to get some lift. Instead, the uneven thrust generated by the ailing engines caused the Hammerhead to reel backwards.  
  
Having remained seated but for the grace of his safety belt, Jet drove the column forwards. Again, his over-steering sent the ship reeling, forwards this time. However, before jet could try another heavy-handed manoeuvre, the engines coughed, groaned, and finally expired. The spotlights cut out, cockpit lights faded, and jet was plunged into total darkness.  
  
There was a moment of near flawless silence.  
  
The next sound Jet heard was the unearthly roar of the Hammerhead ploughing nose-first into the ground. The unfortunate bounty hunter was thrown forward, only to have the air driven from his lungs as he met with stubborn resistance from his safety belt. Jet made several failed attempts to cough, but did not try to right himself. Keeping his head down he drew his arms up over his face and, amid the maelstrom of straining metal, awaited the final inevitable impact.  
  
***  
  
A horrendous crash tore through the air. Spike stumbled sideways as the stairway bucked suddenly beneath his feet, landing with his right arm draped over the rusty banister. Before he could lean over the rail to investigate the sound, a thick plume of dust erupted up through the centre of the spiralled stairwell. Spike averted his eyes as the cloud rushed by, protecting them from the sting of the tiny shards of concrete.  
  
Grasping tightly the banister with both arms, Spike attempted to ride out the storm as the stairway continued to reel and warp under the force of whatever cataclysm was happening below. Over and over, the stairs jumped and bucked like an angry steed, trying to throw Spike from his purchase. But still he clung on, the steel rod he grasped pounding against the outside of his chest almost as hard as his heart pounded upon the inside.  
  
After some seconds of violent quaking, the agonised wail of warping metal began to subside and gradually, the battered staircase came to an uneasy rest.  
  
Standing up slowly so as not to disturb the already dangerously loosened wall brackets, Spike peered tentatively over the side of the stairway.  
  
"What the hell was that?" Faye's displeased voice rose over the weary panting of battered steel.  
  
She was no more than two or three flights of stairs behind Spike, but he was unconcerned by her presence. What worried him more was the sight below. At the foot of the stairwell, shrouded in an eerily translucent death mask of settled dust lay the Hammerhead. Its homely face dented, and its formidable teeth twisted and bent, it lay lifeless; the victim of some horrible mishap.  
  
"Oh shit." Spike muttered.  
  
He did not know exactly what had happened, but somehow, he had a feeling that it was going to end up being his fault. 


	11. Who Wants To Live Forever?

11)  
  
The door of the bathroom slid back, and Spike emerged into the corridor. He brushed the residual water from his hands against the back of his trousers, then slipped his hands into his pockets and made his way towards the sitting room.  
  
It was another slow afternoon. This afternoon would have been like most others, had it not been for the calamity of the night before. It was quite eerie in a way. Jet had fretted so vehemently about how vitally important last night's pick up was to be, to the point of labelling it life-and- death. And yet, in the shadow of their ultimate failure, everything seemed to have an odd normality about it. Things were quiet, but normal. Perhaps it was resignation to a fate they had always expected in their heart of hearts, or maybe it was all just a facade, a death shroud of routine draped across their doomed way of life.  
  
But then again, what was he to expect? It wasn't as if anyone was likely to break down in tears, or beseech the heavens for divine intervention. It wasn't as if any of these things would have done any good. The only thing really worth doing was carrying on as usual, until they finally chose to go out into the world and try to make a way for themselves.  
  
Spike had been running something of a pool in his mind. He had been trying to anticipate which of his shipmates would be the first to abandon ship and go and seek greener pastures. First of all there were those with the shortest odds, Ed and Ein. There seemed little point in distinguishing between the two, since for some reason they seemed to relate on a level that was difficult for anyone else to fathom. But then again, Ed and Ein as individuals were difficult to fathom. The eccentric hacker and the strangely knowing Welsh corgi, a double act that no imagination could have dreamed up.  
  
Ed had spent much of her young life fending for herself on this very planet. She had more than proven herself in the independence stakes, and was probably better capable of looking after herself than anyone else on the ship, Spike included. She hadn't relied on a spouse or a career for her purpose in life, she hadn't spent her years feeding on what scraps she could cheat and steal from a decadent underworld, and she had never sought protection and belonging among the morally destitute. Her existence had been both pure and simple, a flawless study in self-sufficiency.  
  
In a respectable second place in the league was Faye. She had not been aboard the Bebop long. At least, not as long as he and Jet. But even so, she had an attachment to this place that she would never, perhaps even could never put into words. When she had been born into this late twenty- first century world, she had been little more than a child. And that had only been three short years earlier. In many respects, this world must still be as frighteningly alien to her as it had been the day she had been released from the comforting embrace of ice, and thrust alone into a world of debt and exploitation. It was small wonder that this ship and her peculiar roster had become a family to Faye. Thanks to the detrimental effects of long-term cryogenic suspension, it was the only one she had ever known.  
  
The longest odds fell to Jet, the eldest crewmember and the owner of the ship. The man may not have been old per se, but still, life had aged him further than his thirty something years. He was inflexible and set in his ways. And what was more he adored the old crate. Most likely, scavengers in years to come would strip the Bebop, only to find a bleached skeleton sat in the pilot's chair with a metal arm on the floor at its side.  
  
Spike hadn't included himself in the pool. First because it would have made for unfairly waited odds, but also since he wasn't affected by the same emotional attachments as the rest of the crew were. The reason he was sticking around was because he wanted to see who would be the first of them to go off on their way. There was just enough fuel left in the swordfish for a trip to the nearest settlement. There was always going to be work for a man of his considerable and diverse skill.  
  
Of course, it probably wouldn't come to that. If worse came to worst they could always make their own way on this world, and simply reconvene after however many months and pool what they had made. And besides, Spike wasn't quite ready to let another life die. Not just yet.  
  
Looking down the corridor, Spike could see Faye leaning cross-legged against the wall. Her left arm was folded across her chest, and a smouldering cigarette that she held with a limp wrist before her face tipped her right arm. That cigarette was probably one of the last few left on board, which was likely why Faye seemed to be savouring it so.  
  
Spike strode down the corridor towards her. He did his best to maintain an air of disinterest, consciously trying to hide the envy with which he viewed the little white roll of paper. His own stock had been depleted earlier that morning.  
  
"Didn't expect to see you around here." Faye said, glancing up at Spike.  
  
Spike didn't reply. He just leaned up against the wall opposite Faye, and placed the sole of his left shoe against it. Now that he was there, he could also hear the soft tapping of Edward on her computer.  
  
Faye took a slow draw upon her cigarette. Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes and allowed the smoke percolated in her lungs. She then opened her eyes, and blew the smoke out in a fine stream.  
  
"You know, you don't have to worry." Faye said. "He's not in there."  
  
"Who, Jet?" asked Spike.  
  
"Yes, Jet." Faye stated. "Don't play dumb with me Spike. I know you've been avoiding him."  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about, Faye." Spike lied dryly.  
  
"Come on, Spike. You're afraid."  
  
"Afraid? Why would I be afraid?"  
  
Faye inhaled another breath of smoke.  
  
"Because what happened last night." she said, each word drowning in a haze of grey fumes. "Your afraid that Jet's mad at you."  
  
Spike let his head drop back against the unforgiving metal bulkhead.  
  
"It's not like Jet's never been mad at me before." he replied.  
  
"No, Spike. I'm not just talking about regular mad. The kind where Jet yells at you, calls you troublesome and obnoxious, then storms off and trims those mini tree things of his. This is serious. You screwed up big. Really big."  
  
"It wasn't my fault." said Spike as a knee-jerk reaction more than anything.  
  
"Those two tracer holes in Jet's fuel tank say otherwise." Faye replied.  
  
Spike gave a tormented sigh.  
  
"Look, Jet told me he'd fixed all the damage to the Hammerhead. I can't be held responsible for what happened after that."  
  
"Well then why don't you go find Jet and tell *him* that?"  
  
Spike didn't reply. He could have scoffed at Faye's claim, or stamped and moaned and protested his innocence. But at this stage, there didn't seem to be much point. When it came down to it, what had happened *was* Spike's fault, and he knew it.  
  
Faye recognised the expression on Spike's face, or rather, the lack thereof. This was the look that came over Spike when he was feeling something that he didn't want anyone else to know about. When such an emotion came over him, it was as if the muscles behind his face would simply turn off as part of some interlock mechanism to prevent his feelings from being betrayed. But then, the context of the moment made those feelings all too obvious to Faye regardless.  
  
"You know, I don't blame you." she said.  
  
Spike looked up at Faye with some slight surprise at her compassionate tone.  
  
"For being worried about Jet, I mean." she continued. "He's the only one around here that you really give a damn about. After all, you didn't choose to be around Ed and Ein and me. But you *did* choose to team up with Jet."  
  
As always, Spike was finding it easier to let someone else do the talking. But still, he couldn't help but be a little taken aback by Faye's insight. Perhaps it was a woman thing - that infamous female intuition that gave them an unfair advantage over the rest of nature's more rational creatures. Maybe that was why he was so suspicious of them. Well, that and the obvious.  
  
Faye caught Spike taking a longing glance at her cigarette. She sighed as she realised that he most probably hadn't been listening to a word she'd said.  
  
Grudgingly, she reached around behind her back with her left hand, and pulled a near empty box of cigarettes out from between her back and her braces. Bringing it out into the open she flicked the lid open, revealing her three remaining cigarettes.  
  
"You're gonna owe me big time for this." she said, as she reluctantly extended the box towards Spike.  
  
Spike leaned forwards and, giving Faye a hybrid look of gratitude and suspicion, plucked one of the cigarettes from its nest. Quickly, almost a little desperately, he slipped the filter end into his mouth and reached into his jacket for his lighter.  
  
"You hear me, Spike?" Faye reiterated.  
  
Spike looked up at Faye as he raised the lighter flame to the cigarette.  
  
"Don't worry." he said. "I always make good on my debts."  
  
Faye ignored the backhanded nature of the reply, and went back to enjoying her own cigarette.  
  
Spike shut the lid of his lighter, and drew slowly upon his cigarette. The warm vapour spilled down his throat and pooled in his lungs, comforting him from within. There were times when the bitter taste of tobacco smoke was his best friend. It was unfortunate that this friend could potentially end up killing him. But then, that situation was not entirely alien to Spike.  
  
Exhaling the smoke skyward, Spike turned back to Faye.  
  
"So what about you?" he asked.  
  
"What *about* me?" Faye replied.  
  
"Aren't you mad at me?" Spike asked. "I kind of expected some reaction."  
  
"Oh I'm mad alright." Faye replied in a deceptively even tone. "It's just, the way I see it, Jet's mad enough for the both of us. And besides, I can't be bothered getting on your back right now. Life's too short."  
  
Spike gave a short, laughter-like grunt.  
  
"Tell me about it."  
  
Faye looked across at Spike in puzzlement.  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.  
  
"You know what I mean, Faye." said Spike. "We've got no money, not fuel, and virtually no food."  
  
Spike didn't feel it necessary to say anything else. The insinuation was there.  
  
Faye beheld him with a look of mild surprise.  
  
"Being a little melodramatic, aren't we?"  
  
Spike gave a sideways smirk.  
  
"Maybe." he said.  
  
"I'm surprised at you Spike." Faye said. "I really didn't figure you for the defeatist type."  
  
"Defeatist?"  
  
"Yeah. I thought that of all of us, you'd be the one who'd cope with this best. You never seemed that bothered by staring death in the face before. What is it you always say? 'Whatever happens, happens'."  
  
Spike had to think about that for a moment. Was she right? Was he really having difficulty coping with the realities of what might happen from here on? All those other times when whatever happens almost did happen, he had been confronted with near insurmountable odds. If he had defeated the odds, and he always had, he would emerge victorious, smirking smugly at the thwarted reaper. And should he fail, then instant death in a blaze of self- destructive glory. Perhaps that was why he was having such difficulty. This failure had not granted him the quick and easy escape of death, but instead subjected him to the humiliation of life. Maybe that defeatist attitude was, in reality, some form of perverse optimism.  
  
"Anyway, I wouldn't worry about dying." Faye said after a short while.  
  
"Why's that?" Spike asked.  
  
"Because dying would be too easy." she replied, and then threw a brief glance skywards. "He's not about to let us off that easily."  
  
She always found someone else to blame. It was one of the few character traits of Faye's of which Spike was envious.  
  
"You mean God?" he asked rhetorically. "What makes you say that?"  
  
"Because He doesn't like us. Surely you've noticed the way things never quite go the way they're supposed to. The way something always nips in at the last moment to deny us. Let's face it Spike, God's got it in for us in a big way."  
  
Spike took a breath of smoke.  
  
"Maybe it was something we said." he commented.  
  
"Hmm." Murmured Faye.  
  
Spike and Faye returned their attention to their respective cigarettes, between the two of them covering the ceiling of the corridor with a veil of smoke.  
  
After a few quite moments, Spike caught wind of a faint sound. His ears pricked up as he attempted to resolve it from the ambient hum of the ship's electrical systems.  
  
"Do you here that?" he asked.  
  
"Here what?" Faye asked distantly.  
  
Spike did not reply straight away. Instead, he continued to try and identify the noise. It was a low pitch rumbling, which Spike was fairly sure was emanating from beyond the hull of the Bebop. It was unsteady and intermittent, probably as a result of being carried on the changeable sea winds, but it was there, and it was getting louder.  
  
"That sound." he replied, finally.  
  
By this time, Faye too had picked it up. It sounded like the lament of a ship's engine, and was drawing close at great speed. Neither she nor Spike reacted to it, choosing instead to wait and see whether the sound passed. Within a few moments however, the sound reigned over all the existing background noise, reverberating through the bulkheads and drowning out all but the sound of their own breath. Then it reached a constant level.  
  
"It's landing here." Faye observed.  
  
And indeed she was right. Moments later, a dull thump rang through the ship's metal skeleton, and shortly after the engine noise cut out.  
  
Silence was restored. But it was short lived. Both Spike and Faye leaned over and peered into the sitting room as the door to the bridge rolled aside with a mechanical rumble revealing Jet on the other side.  
  
Jet placed his right hand against the frame of the door and placed one foot over the threshold.  
  
"It's Steele." he said sternly. "He's back."  
  
Faye and Spike looked at Jet as they assimilated the information, then both leaned back into the corridor and looked at one another.  
  
"You might want to hang on to that funeral deposit." Faye said.  
  
Both bounty hunters quickly dropped their cigarettes to the ground and stamped them out before Jet emerged into the corridor, each leaving their foot upon the cigarette so as to conceal the evidence.  
  
Jet stepped through the door and marched past between them.  
  
"Get your guns." he said. "We've got a bounty to catch."  
  
At this the tapping of computer keys ceased.  
  
"Ed, stay here." Jet added before Ed get a word in. "It's too dangerous."  
  
There came a disappointed whine, followed by the sound of angry pounding of computer keys as Ed reluctantly returned to her surfing.  
  
Spike and Faye leaned away from their walls and began to follow Jet down the corridor. Then Jet stopped and glanced over his shoulder, prompting them to stop also.  
  
"And you can clean up that mess later." he said.  
  
***  
  
The trio of bounty hunters entered the hangar in time to hear the sound of three metallic raps on the access hatch.  
  
"You know what to do." Jet said, addressing Spike without turning to him.  
  
Spike didn't respond. He did know what he had to do. That much went without saying. Now was the time to prove that he *could* do it, without hesitation or regret.  
  
Purposefully he strode on ahead of colleagues, both of whom already had their guns drawn and at their sides. He paced quickly across the hangar, to the beat of the repeated knocking that echoed through the hull of the ship. Upon reaching the access hatch, he took one final second to purge any residual emotion. There was simply no room for such things now. This wasn't about money anymore. This was about survival, which was something Steele was sure to understand.  
  
Spike almost adopted an expression of disgusted surprise at himself. It didn't matter whether or not Steele understood. Quickly, he reached out and thumped the panel before his strangely active conscience could throw him another curve ball.  
  
The door slid back revealing Steele, dressed in exactly the same manner as that in which he had been only the week before, minus the jacket. The man instantaneously wore a look of concern, which quickly changed to one of relief and pleased surprise as saw Spike standing before him.  
  
"Oh, hey there Spike." he said.  
  
"Hey Stainless." Spike replied. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"  
  
"I just thought I'd stop by to see how you guys were doing."  
  
"Are you sure you didn't just come back for Jet's cooking?" Spike joked.  
  
He could feel the glare of his comrades as they willed him to get on with what had been planned.  
  
Steele gave a short laugh, and then smiled as he succumbed to having the real purpose of his visit wheedled from him.  
  
"Well, as good as Jet's cooking was, that's not the real reason I'm here." he confided. "The truth is, I was a little worried about you.  
  
Spike raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.  
  
"Worried?" he said.  
  
"Yes." Answered Steele. "You see, when I came out for my match, I didn't see you or Faye in the seats I got for you. And when the match was over, I heard from one of the stewards that there'd been some trouble outside."  
  
"So you came to check up on us?" Spike said with a slight smile.  
  
"Yeah, I guess so." Steele replied, sounding a little embarrassed. "So, where did you guys get to anyway?"  
  
This was it.  
  
"Why don't you some in?" Spike said. "Everything will be explained."  
  
"Thanks." Steele said.  
  
Spike stepped aside and allowed Steele to step in from the hot sun to the cool air of the hangar. The fighter walked past Spike, turned, and made his way a few steps into the ship. Then he stopped suddenly, as he was confronted by Jet and Faye, both stood before him with guns trained. Swinging his gargantuan frame around, his gaze fell upon Spike who too had drawn his firearm and had it pointed at the fighter.  
  
For a moment he stared into Spike's eyes, his face painted with surprise. However, the surprise slowly melted away, revealing an undercoat of disappointment. What struck Spike however was that the disappointment did not carry any hint of that momentary surprise. Instead, it was accompanied by a sorrowful resignation, as if what was happening had not been entirely unexpected.  
  
Steele closed his eyes and lowered his head mournfully. As Spike looked on, the fighter's battered face aged immeasurably. And yet, this newly defeated figure of a man was not unfamiliar. This was how Steele had looked on the evening that Spike had first met him. It was only then that Spike realised just how great a difference there was between the man at the Polish fights, and that with whom he had shared a dinner table.  
  
Then, almost appearing to smile slightly, Steele uttered the words.  
  
"Bounty hunters."  
  
"Yep." Spike responded, his flat tone laced with a modicum of regret. "Surprised?"  
  
Steele looked up at Spike, and sighed.  
  
"No, I guess not." he said, and after a brief pause added. "I, uh. . . take it that was you outside at the fight?"  
  
"Yeah, that was us all right." said Spike.  
  
"That friend of yours, Yukawa, he had a pretty hefty price on his head." Faye intervened. "It was just too good to pass up."  
  
"So, you were just using me as a way to get to Victor." Steele sighed. "Guess you needed all the help you could get."  
  
Faye's gloating expression changed to one of displeasure.  
  
"Yeah, he got away." Jet stated, and then glared over at Spike. "Your friend got lucky."  
  
"If you say so." said Steele. "He said that after he got chased out of the building, some lunatic in a fishing boat nearly ran him down."  
  
This time it was Jet's turn to adopt a look of displeasure.  
  
For a moment, the situation lost a little of its pathos for Spike. It seemed that even now, Steele retained his uncanny knack for unintentionally offending members of the Bebop's crew.  
  
"Still, I guess his luck was a little better than mine." Steele sighed, and then turned back to Spike.  
  
"So, I guess this makes me the second choice." he said, with a soft, ironic laugh. "It's not really something I'm used to."  
  
"It's nothing personal." Spike replied. "Its just good business, that's all."  
  
"Yeah." said Steele. "So. . . what now?"  
  
"Now you put your hands on your head and do as your told." Faye snarled. "Then we take you to a police station, turn you in, and get some chump change for gas."  
  
Steele slowly raised his hands, and clasped them across the back of his bowing head.  
  
"Prison." he muttered. "Some retirement."  
  
"Don't worry." Jet said. "The penal colony on Titan isn't so bad. A guy like you would have no problem surviving there."  
  
"I don't want to survive!" Steele snapped, taking all by surprise. He then continued in a moderate tone. "I've spent the last forty years surviving. Now, I just want to live."  
  
There was a momentary silence. These words had reached all of the bounty hunters, whom too had at times tired of their life of survival, and pined for a more comfortable existence. But none could claim to have had to live that way for nearly as long as Steele had. For all the success and wealth his profession had brought, his existence was still as tenuous as any of theirs, perhaps even more so.  
  
"Come on," Said Jet solemnly, beginning to pace backwards. "Let's go."  
  
Faye began to move aside to allow Steel to pass, while Jet remained some meters ahead thus preventing him from lashing out at both.  
  
As Spike watched Steele begin to trudge away, he felt a twinge of regret. This regret was of a more selfish nature however, as he began to realise he might never know what it was that had been troubling him about Steele. As it stood, talking to Steele was not really an option, since a betrayal of trust was hardly an ideal icebreaker. But there didn't seem to be any other way of finding out.  
  
At that moment Spike realised that he had been overlooking the obvious. There was a way, the one way in which one could find out the most about a man.  
  
"Wait." he called, lowering his weapon.  
  
Steele, Jet and Faye all stopped what they were doing and looked back at Spike. Though Faye and Steele were both as curious as each other as to what was going on, Jet looked decidedly worried.  
  
"Stainless, you want to retire, right?" he said. "Then how about one last fight before you do?"  
  
"Spike. . ." Jet said warily.  
  
But it was too late. Spike's mind was made up.  
  
"If you want to leave, then you have to fight me for it." he said.  
  
"What!" Steele and Faye said in unison; Faye's contribution being the louder of the two, but sounding no more surprised.  
  
"What are you saying?" Steele continued.  
  
"I'm saying that if you can beat me in a fair fight, then you're free to go." Spike replied.  
  
Steele looked pensively to the ground at Spike's feet.  
  
"Fight for my freedom." he said. "That's a new one."  
  
Steele then turned around cautiously and lowered his hands from his head.  
  
"You do realise what you're saying?" he asked of Spike. "I mean, you know what will happen if you lose. Once I get started I. . ."  
  
Spike smiled knowingly.  
  
"Yeah. I know." he said.  
  
"Wait a minute." Faye butted in. "Nobody has to fight for anything. We caught Steele fair and square. There's no reason to start playing these stupid games now."  
  
"Sorry, Faye." Spike said insincerely. "It's just something I have to do."  
  
"Something you have to. . Spike, you. . . I. . ."  
  
Faye stopped, held her breath for a moment as she composed a rational argument, and then spoke.  
  
"All right then, Spike." she said. "What if you fight Steele? What if you fight him and you lose? Then what are we supposed to do? Starve to death because of your barbaric need to prove yourself in battle?"  
  
"Now who's being melodramatic?" Spike said.  
  
"You didn't answer my question, Spike." Faye pointed out angrily.  
  
"Okay. If I lose, then you have my permission to sell the Swordfish." Spike replied, glancing momentarily at his trusty steed. "She'll fetch a good few hundred grand over the internet."  
  
"What?" Faye barked, and then turned to Jet. "Jet, you're not gonna let him do this are you?"  
  
Jet had already lowered his gun however, and was looking down at the ground and rumbling to himself softly. There were times when he cursed all of those macho vows and bonds he and Spike had made when they had first joined forces; all those pacts that prohibited interference in each other's personal affairs, as it seemed now he was about to have one pulled against him.  
  
Seeing that she was not going to get any back up from Jet, Faye raised her gun and pointed directly at Steele's head.  
  
"Fine!" she said. "Then I'll do it myself."  
  
"Put the gun down, Faye." Came Jet's low, resigned tone.  
  
Faye looked briefly at Jet, and then back at Steele.  
  
"Jet?"  
  
"I said put it down!" Jet snapped. "If Spike wants to get himself killed then let him. God knows it'll be one less thing to worry about around here."  
  
Faye glanced back and forth uncertainly between Jet and Steele before grudgingly deferring to Jet's command. She then sent a narrow eyed glare Spike's way.  
  
"I don't suppose you're going to tell us why you're doing this." Faye hazarded.  
  
As expected, she got no reply.  
  
"Sometimes I really hate you, Spike Spiegel." she muttered.  
  
Spike looked across at his partner.  
  
"Thanks, Jet." he said.  
  
Jet did not respond to Spike's show of graciousness in kind.  
  
"Yeah well don't expect us pay for a funeral if you lose, Spike." he said, resisting the urge to use the W-word. "If you get killed then your sorry ass is going straight into the sea."  
  
Spike responded to Jet's angry tone with a sleepy smile. He then reached for the panel at his side, and thumped it once causing the access hatch to hiss open. Looking at Steele, he gestured to the open door.  
  
"Right this way."  
  
Then, stepping through the door, he walked out onto the dazzlingly sunlit flight deck, and what might very well be his final battlefield. 


	12. Save The Last Dance

12) Save The Last Dance.  
  
Spike emerged, squinting in the sunlight. The late evening sun poured its warmth into the rocky harbour as it fell rapidly from the tropical sky. The waves that rode the sea currents were light and slow moving, but nonetheless caused the deck to sway lightly beneath Spike's feet. It almost seemed a shame to taint this tranquil scene with spilled blood.  
  
There wasn't going to be much room for this fight to take place, as Steele's antiquated though well-kept zipper craft was parked squarely at the heart of the landing deck. Small, red, and possessing a cockpit constructed almost entirely of reinforced plastic, the craft was not entirely dissimilar from Faye's Redtail. However, its sleek lines, flawless paint job and lack of retro fittings spoke of a ship meant for recreation rather than business.  
  
Bathed in the glow of a setting sun, it cast a long shadow diagonally across the deck, and its refitted suspension creaked drowsily as the rolling sea rocked it gently from side to side.  
  
Slowly, Spike paced across the titanium plates towards a point halfway between the ship and the hangar doors. Already, his mind had begun mapping the arena, making careful note of everything from areas of light and shade, to warped and pitted deck plates. If he were to last in this battle, he would have to know intimately every nuance of his surroundings.  
  
Spike turned as he heard the metallic thump of Steele's boot against the deck. The fighter strode out the access hatch, and moved out into the sun. Spike could tell that he too had set about charting the arena, as the fighter's eyes began to scan steadily across the scene.  
  
"Great minds think alike." he muttered to himself.  
  
He then set to picking out a good starting position. The side of the deck to the left of the hangar door seemed best, since it benefited most from the shade of Steele's ship.  
  
Spike paced casually across the deck, and took up his chosen position. After a couple of moments' quiet contemplation, he set about throwing a barrage warm up punches and kicks. Of course this was just a token gesture. A fight with Steele would in reality have required considerably more preparation, most pertaining to getting one's affairs in final order.  
  
As he warmed up, Spike kept an eye on Steele as he made his way gradually to a position opposing his own. The fighter had ceased to survey the setting for the fight, and was now silently mouthing words to himself. Perhaps he was strategising, or praying, or simply playing mind games with his opponent. For Spike, only the most former of these three seemed likely, since a man of Steele's skill and experience would surely have no use for the latter two.  
  
Steele stopped almost the width of the hangar door from Spike. For a while he stood motionless with his back turned, his shoulders hunched and his head lowered.  
  
A warm gust of wind raced across the deck, murmuring in anticipation as it weaved amid the landing gears of the zipper craft.  
  
Steele raised his head, and slowly began to turn and face Spike. But when the fighter came through one hundred and eighty degrees, what returned Spike's stare was not the face of the man that Spike had invited to dinner, nor that of the concerned friend that had come to confirm his safe return home. What confronted him was the face of a monster, the thoughtless beast that had so ruthlessly dispatched scores of hapless opponents for the satiation a bloodthirsty crowd. This was the true face of Stainless Steele.  
  
Spike could sense that the time for preparation was over.  
  
***  
  
Faye and Jet stood side by side in front of the hangar door, and watched as Spike and Steele stared one another down. Each had a hand raised to their forehead, shielding their eyes from the orange glow of the sun, which peeked over the top of Steele's ship as if scarcely able to watch the tense scene below.  
  
"I can't believe you're letting him do this." Faye said, as she watched Spike finishing off his warm ups.  
  
Jet remained silent, his dark eyes trained on his partner from beneath a furrowed brow.  
  
"You realise this is all going to end in tears?" Faye continued. "He's going to get his head smashed open, and we're going to spend our final days of starvation scrubbing his brains off the deck."  
  
Faye glanced up at Jet. Still there was no response.  
  
"Still, I guess that job wouldn't take too long." she added, and then looked forwards once again. "You know, there's still time to stop this."  
  
"No." Jet rumbled. "If he wants to do this, then let him."  
  
Though Jet was not pleased by what was happening before him, he was beginning to understand why it was happening. This was Spike's way of solving the puzzle that had dogged him since this whole fiasco had begun. Spike had often said that one could learn a lot about a man from doing battle with him. Jet just hoped that his partner did not end up taking the solution to this mystery to his grave.  
  
As the pair watched, Steele gave a loud grunt and tensed every muscle in his body. At that moment, both could have sworn that the fighter had doubled in size.  
  
Faye flinched slightly. She was finding it more and more difficult to view the man before her as the unwelcome dinner guest of the week before. The last time she had seen Steele this way she had been shielded from him by a ten-foot high wall of concrete blocks and a host of armed stewards. Now, having that behemoth only meters away with only the air she breathed between them was proving unsettling indeed.  
  
Suddenly, both bounty hunters' eyebrows shot up as Spike began to do something that was totally unexpected.  
  
"Jet," Faye said uncertainly. "What's he doing?"  
  
"I. . . I think he's taking off his jacket." Jet replied.  
  
"I know that." said Faye. "But why? I mean, I don't think I've ever seen him take his jacket off to fight before."  
  
"This isn't just any fight." Jet stated, reprising his original expression. "Not for Spike, anyway. He's about to fight the guy he idolised as a kid."  
  
Jet then looked down at Faye.  
  
"How would you feel if you had the chance to play cards with the greatest ever card sharp?"  
  
"I wouldn't," Faye huffed. "Because I'm not stupid."  
  
Jet looked back to the contenders. She made a valid point.  
  
There was a lull in the conversation. After a short while of watching the fighters make their final preparations for battle, Faye spoke up.  
  
"He is such an idiot." she muttered.  
  
There was another pause.  
  
"Jet?" Faye spoke once more.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Spike can take this guy, right?"  
  
Jet sighed, and closed his eyes thoughtfully.  
  
"Spike's good," he said. "Very good. But Steele is something else. He's been killing the system's best fighters with his bare hands since before Spike was even born."  
  
Jet stopped himself as he inhaled to speak again. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to say any more. This was just as well, since Faye was not certain she wanted to hear any more. So, the two continued to watch in quiet anxiety, Jet grinding his finger tips against his palms, and Faye biting down gently on her bottom lip.  
  
***  
  
Spike tossed his jacket aside, glancing to his right to see it land squarely at the feet of Jet and Faye. His eyes lingered for a moment, but soon returned to Steele as he realised that they weren't going to pick it up. They obviously didn't think he would have much use for it after the fight.  
  
Spike breathed in slowly through his mouth and exhaled hard through his nose. Then, allowing his arms to swing lose and his legs to relax he hopped briefly from foot to foot before finally adopting a combat stance.  
  
In response, Steele raised his massive arms out to a horizontal position and pushed his chest outwards. The resulting crack of the fighter's sternum rang out clearly through the early evening air. He then lowered his arms with a slow purposefulness.  
  
"You ready?" he rumbled.  
  
"Yes." Spike replied. "But before we start, can I ask you a favour?"  
  
Spike paused for Steele's response, but none came. Regardless of this, he asked,  
  
"If it comes down to it, will you use the Hammer?"  
  
There was a moment of silence. For an instant, Spike saw what he could have sworn was a slight smile come across Steele's face. But it was fleeting, and was followed by the fighter's ominous, baritone reply,  
  
"Anything for a fan."  
  
The cool sea breeze washed over the scene, and for a short time, all was calm.  
  
A nearby sea bird beat its wing, its feathers disturbing the surface of the temperate waters.  
  
As if activated by the stimulus, Steele lurched into motion. Steadily he paced towards Spike, his boots beating out a death-march rhythm.  
  
Seeing that battle was about to commence, Spike smiled to himself, and uttered under his breath,  
  
"Let's jam."  
  
Skipping a couple of lanky paces forwards, Spike was quickly upon Steele. With nary a pause he unleashed his first assault - a salvo of kicks aimed directly for the fighter's head. Repeatedly he flung his feet skywards, stretching his limbs as far as he could as they reached hungrily for their lofty target. But repeatedly, Steele would evade the blows; simply dodging them with a speed that appeared unintuitive when displayed by a man his size.  
  
Backwards and forwards, side-to-side, Steele weaved amid the barrage, never once appearing to be in danger of being struck.  
  
Stepping off for a couple of seconds, Spike re-evaluated his tactics. The man was huge, possessing both advantages in height and weight. His best bet would be to get him off his feet.  
  
Spike slid forwards once more. This time, he dropped to the ground and lashed out with his right foot. But something was wrong.  
  
Quickly Spike retracted the foot, only to see a bolt of silver strike the deck, skimming the sole of his shoe. A bone-shaking crash reverberated through the deck as Steele's fist ploughed into it, warping and tearing the metal as it went.  
  
Spike leapt to his feet and retreated once again. Watching as Steele hauled his cannonball of a fist from the cleaved deck plates, he considered how close he had come to the brink. His keen instincts had narrowly saved him from making the same mistake as Tiger Po. If defeating Steele were unlikely now, then doing it with a compound fracture of the shin would be impossible.  
  
Unfortunately, it did not appear that Spike would have a chance to rethink his strategy again. Steele began to march forwards, the tempo of his footsteps increasing with every pace.  
  
Backing off was not an option, since Spike could only take a few paces before taking an abrupt swim. If he were going to gain an advantage, it would be by somehow backing Steele out of the shadow of his ship and into the sun. As such, Spike elected to hold his ground and await Steele's reply.  
  
Steele's penultimate step was slow and deliberate, but that which followed was lightning fast. The fighter flung himself into a punch, his whole body weight thrust behind the pile driver of an attack.  
  
Spike dodged the first blow. He could feel it glance across the mop of hair that sat atop his brow. But before he could give thought to the narrowness of his escape, he was forced into a second dodge, and a third.  
  
In moments Spike was dancing though a storm of jabs and uppercuts, his every deft weave and sidestep keeping him only millimetres from a gory end. But he held his ground, almost cheek-to-cheek with Steele as they engaged in this deadly quickstep.  
  
Suddenly, Steele stepped off. Raising his right fist, he threw a powerful jab directly at the centre of Spike's head. As the metal implement coasted towards Spike, he couldn't help but use the few instants he had to contemplate the style of this attack. The pace was slow, and form strangely lacking.  
  
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Spike evaded the blow with ease. Then, taking Steele by the forearm, he twisted his body and levered the fighter's immense frame from the ground. Though the martial arts that he had studied so diligently were designed to virtually eliminate any strength or weight advantage an opponent might have, tossing Steele still required an almighty effort. In spite of this, Spike was able to hurl the behemoth over, and leap back as he coasted overhead.  
  
However, Spike recovered from the manoeuvre only to see Steele rolling gracefully through the air. With a mighty thump, the fighter landed squarely on his feet. His knees bent as he landed, and then straightened rapidly as he vaulted into the air. The unfortunate flight deck took a further pounding as Steele landed fists first, and then flipped himself back onto his feet, coming to rest mere inches from the edge of the ship.  
  
Spike could do little but watch in awe at this incredible show of agility. This was made all the more impressive not only by the size, but by the age of the one exhibiting it.  
  
Steele turned to face Spike. As he did, his face bore little emotion, showing neither the pride nor smugness that another might after such a display, Spike included. This came as no surprise to Spike, as showboating was not Steele's style. Every thing he did had a reason, with no wasted energy and no wasted time. That manoeuvre was designed to minimise the stress caused to his joints by his own mammoth weight.  
  
Without further pause, Steele began to gallop towards Spike. Seconds later, he launched a new assault, even more ferocious than the first. So fierce and rapid was this bombardment that Spike was forced to retreat, capitulating to Steele's relentless advance. Backing off meter after meter, Spike could see no ebb to this tide of punches.  
  
Spike winced. The light was so bright.  
  
In that moment he realised he had strayed into the sun. That had been Steele's ploy, to use Spike's desperation to land some kind of attack in order to improve his own strategic position. Steele had not needed to do this, but had likely chosen to do so in order to deceive his opponent, in much the same that he had been deceived. It seemed that Steele was not without a sense of irony.  
  
Spike spotted a streak of sun-kissed metal through his squinting eyes. He attempted to dodge the attack, but his lapse in attention had already cost him dearly.  
  
A searing pain sprawled from Spike's left shoulder blade as it buckled under the force of the punch. Spike reeled back and to his right, taking him through an arc that turned his back to the sun. However, this was unlikely to provide much of a tactical advantage now. Though the injury was not mortal in itself, what would now result made it as deadly as a bullet through the heart.  
  
Spike hunched forwards, tending his burning shoulder with his right hand. Grimacing in pain, he looked on as Steele turned ominously towards him and began what he must surely have intended to be his final approach. Instinctively Spike began to back away. Allowing his broken shoulder to rest unguarded, he raised his right hand and made ready for the next wave.  
  
Steele drew closer, his pace increasing with every step. Spike continued to back off, but the screaming of his shattered shoulder blade was proving too great a hindrance. As such, Steele was slowly and inexorably closing in.  
  
Then, Steele spoke.  
  
"You can't run forever, Spike."  
  
Such an address was not uncharacteristic for Steele. Spike had often seen the fighter dispense a few words to opponents who were near defeat, but the sound had been lost amid the din of the spectators. But those words, they seemed relevant, and in more than just the obvious sense.  
  
Spike was not given time to ponder their meaning. Steele lunged at him, his fist raised with a deadly intent. Spike flung himself aside, braving the agonising cries of the nerves around his broken bone, and then desperately threw a right fist at the exposed side of Steele's face. However, in the instants before contact, Steele flicked his left hand up across his face, splaying it out like a fan of lustrous metal. Spike, who had committed his whole body weight to this last ditch attack, cried out as his knuckles shattered against the unforgiving Steele.  
  
Spike staggered back, now unable to cradle either painful injury. He stumbled back a few paces before his back made contact with another metal surface, this time the hull of Steele's ship. Resting up against the craft, Spike looked at Steele who still held his blocking stance. The fighter then turned to face Spike, his expression still carrying little emotion.  
  
It was unbelievable. Spike had known that he was going up against the odds in fighting Steele, but it wasn't as if he had never faced an opponent with superior skills before. But never, in reality or his nightmares, had he ever been or expected to be so hopelessly outmatched. It didn't scare Spike, but it did infuriate him. How could he let it end this way - pummelled to death with scarcely an ounce of resistance?  
  
In a moment of bitter frustration, Spike lashed out with a right-footed kick. The attack, fast as lightning and powerful as thunder, was driven by all of Spike's rage at himself; at the way he had been defeated so easily, and at the way he had allowed so much to remain unfinished.  
  
It was blocked easily. Steele simply batted Spike's foot away, cracking several more of the bounty hunter's comparatively brittle bones in the process.  
  
Spike fell back against the ship once more, this time needing its support just to remain upright. That final failed attack had taken with it the last of his anger, the last of his strength, and the last of his will to carry on fighting. Sure, he could try his luck again. He could attack Steele once more, and earn the fighter's respect for his never-say-die attitude. But then, what was the point? This was not some great arena were thousands would cheer his courageous heart and honourable demise. This was an old fishing ship stranded in the middle of nowhere; where almost no one knew his name nor would ever have any cause to speak it. And besides, to strike Steele now would be to strike him with a sack of shattered bone. Spike might have found the idea funny, where it not happening to him. No, this would be a forgettable end, and perhaps no more than he deserved.  
  
Using his one good leg, Spike pushed himself upright against the smooth hull of Steele's ship. With his anger dissipated, he could now face death as coolly and as readily as he had before.  
  
Though Spike's existence was one riddled with regret, the one that forced itself upon him now was that this stunt would now cost his colleagues their livelihood. They deserved better than this, all of them. But these pangs of guilt that had taken advantage of Spike's weakened defences would soon be irrelevant. The cold blade of the reaper would soon cut him free.  
  
That was it. That was what those words *really* meant.  
  
Spike winced as a wave of intense pain washed over him. The agony that gripped him was getting the upper hand, and he was starting have trouble either thinking or seeing straight. He could just about make the form of Steele before him, flashing in and out of focus like a dream about to end. The fighter was drawing back his fist, preparing to deliver on a promise made only minutes earlier.  
  
Spike regained his control over the pain, and improved his upright stance as best he could. He might scarcely be able to see the deathblow as it came, but at least he would die on his feet.  
  
In the final moments, Spike could hear the sound of a metal implement as it sliced through the air. It seemed to last forever, as if Spike's mind was warping his sense of time in an effort to prolong his existence. Then, it came - the sickening dull sound of metal striking flesh. . . and Stainless Steele fell to the ground.  
  
At first, Spike was confused. He was certain that he should be dead at this point, and yet here he was, in so far as he could tell at least. His mind cycled through the possibilities. Perhaps he was dead, and his punishment for his crimes in life would be condemned to live out eternally his undistinguished final moments. Maybe he had somehow struck Steele down himself, having been possessed by some primal subconscious override that surfaced when it was needed most. Spike even considered the possibility that Steele had succumbed to age, falling to some kind of organ failure after years of inhuman exertion.  
  
But as his eyes struggled to regain some focus, the true cause of Steele's collapse became apparent. Just beyond the crumpled form of the fallen fighter stood Faye, dented fire extinguisher in hand, and a displeased look on her face. This sight was enough to re-ignite Spike's chagrin, but this time it was not focused on himself.  
  
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Faye?" he rasped, his every breath a stinging reminder of his injuries.  
  
Faye looked up from the unconscious Steele, and glared at Spike angrily.  
  
"Oh, don't thank me Spike." she said. "Saving your worthless hide was my pleasure."  
  
"You had no right." Spike argued, his annoyance wiping out his former conscience.  
  
"I had every right." Faye stated. "Like it or not, I had a stake in this fight too. I wasn't about to let you blow our last chance at this bounty."  
  
Spike inhaled to respond, but instead thrust the breath out past his grimacing teeth as his injuries flared up once more.  
  
"I'm afraid I'm with Faye on this one, Spike." Came Jet's voice.  
  
Jet emerged into Spike's blurred line of sight, and looked down upon the stricken pit fighter.  
  
"So, you're in on this too?" Spike said. "I thought you of all people would know better."  
  
"Sorry Spike," Jet replied. "But we need this bounty head too much."  
  
Spike gave a stunted laugh, which was all his aching body would allow.  
  
"So I guess saving my life was just an added bonus." he said.  
  
"Yeah, well we all have to make some sacrifices." Faye cracked.  
  
"Listen Spike," said Jet. "If it makes you feel any better, I'll let you stick *your* nose into *my* business next time."  
  
Spike gave a slight smile. He might have laughed, but that would have hurt too much.  
  
"Remind me to take you upon that." he muttered.  
  
Of course, Faye and Jet were right. This wasn't really his business and his alone. Each of the Bebop's denizens had an interest in this bounty, to the point that their very way of life depended on it. Though sometimes, it was hard to see just why they were so hell bent on maintaining this paltry existence.  
  
And besides, thinking back on it Spike hadn't really felt like dying today anyway. That day would come, just not today.  
  
Jet stooped and hoisted Steele's left arm over his shoulder. Then with a grunt of effort, he lifted the fighter from the ground and began to drag his colossal frame back to the access hatch.  
  
"Better get this guy trussed up before he comes to." Jet thought out loud as he hauled Steele away.  
  
Suddenly, an ear-piercing shriek filled the sea air. All those who remained conscious winced at the noise, which was coming from the Bebop's external loudspeaker system. The feedback soon died down, only to be replaced by an equalling unsettling sound.  
  
"Naughty Faye-Faye," Edward's voice boomed. "You cheated."  
  
"Ed! Get off the PA!" Jet yelled at the young hacker, who could be seen in the window of the bridge overlooking the deck.  
  
"I see Ed is as concerned for your welfare as the rest of us." Faye commented.  
  
"She's right you know," he smirked. "You did cheat. Guess old habits die hard."  
  
Faye looked down disdainfully upon the near doubled over Spike.  
  
"They're not the only ones." she observed. "So, are you coming or not?"  
  
Spike cocked an eyebrow.  
  
"Oh right," Faye said, as if only just remembering. "All those bones you broke."  
  
She then smiled wickedly,  
  
"I suppose you're going to need some help, huh?"  
  
The smirk melted from Spike's face. He didn't like the sound of that. He didn't like the sound of that at all. 


	13. Forever Broke

13) Forever Broke  
  
Spike grunted with discomfort as he manoeuvred his bandaged right foot over the threshold of yet another segment of corridor. Everything was sore, even parts of his body had not used to fight. And as if the torture of his injuries had not been bad enough, Faye's heavy-handed bedside manner had proven almost more than the infirm bounty hunter could take. If she had applied the bandages any tighter, he might have needed an amputation.  
  
Spike wobbled for a moment. Reaching out, he grabbed the frame of the threshold with his right hand, only to receive a harsh reminder of why the appendage was splinted and bound. As he reeled away with a bark of pain, his left shoulder came up against the unyielding metal wall. Another bark of anguish and Spike finally, painfully regained his balance.  
  
This had been happening all to often since earlier that evening. Getting around on a broken foot was a challenge, especially as his splinted hand and slung shoulder precluded the use of a crutch and the Bebop, for all its vast cargo and hangar space, did not accommodate a wheelchair. There were times when Spike had considering purchasing one for himself. Value for money would certainly be guaranteed.  
  
Of course, as always, he had brought this upon himself. In his zeal to discover the reason for Steele's odd effect on him, he had thrown himself thoughtlessly into the grinder with nary a thought for the consequences. But then, Spike didn't *do* consequences. Never had.  
  
Spike grimaced as he placed his bruised heel upon the floor for another painful step. For something he didn't *do*, these consequences certainly smarted.  
  
Fortunately, Spike's skirmish with Steele had not been entirely fruitless. He felt that he was close to the answer. When he had looked into Steele's eyes as they had fought, if 'fight' was even the word for what had happened, he was sure he had seen something pertinent. But still, Spike remained unsure of just what that something was. The answers were never going to come that easily. Nothing ever did.  
  
And so, Spike was now making the arduous journey to enlightenment - a lonely pilgrim with only his wounds for company.  
  
As one might expect, Spike had found the path to the truth to be fraught with obstacles, the last of which now lay just ahead.  
  
Ed was patrolling a short stretch of corridor outside the sitting room. The eccentric child had a balding broom hoisted over her shoulder like a rifle, and was marching back and forth repeating the words,  
  
"Hup, two three four. Hup, two three four."  
  
As always, Ein was in tow. The little dog trotted back and forth a couple of stubby-legged paces behind Edward, and was watching her intently. He appeared almost to be studying Ed, as if she were some petri-dish borne oddity. It certainly wouldn't have come as any surprise to find that Ed was some sort of strange lab experiment. But of course, Ein was just a dog, and dogs aren't intelligent enough to study experiments and such. That would just be silly.  
  
Spike approached the armed guard, only to be confronted as he reached the doorway.  
  
"Halt! Who goes there?" Ed barked, pointing her deadly broom at a defenceless Spike.  
  
"Get out of the way, Ed." Spike sighed.  
  
Edward's eyes narrowed with suspicion.  
  
"What's the password?" she asked.  
  
Spike growled softly with frustration.  
  
"Get out of the way *now*, Ed." he replied.  
  
Ed glared at Spike for some seconds before finally delivering her verdict.  
  
"Password accepted." she said, grinning widely. "You may enter."  
  
"Gee, thanks." Spike muttered.  
  
Edward flung her firearm back over her shoulder and returned to her guard duty.  
  
Meanwhile, Spike set about limping into the sitting room, cursing the individual whose idea it was to raise the bottom of every doorway on the ship as he went.  
  
Entering the room, Spike's gaze fell upon his goal. On the left hand side of the room was sat Stainless Steele. The fighter was bound to the yellow armchair in which he sat, his bonds thread between the rails of the stairway for extra security. His head was lowered and his eyes closed as he appeared to trying to get some sleep.  
  
The crew had earlier elected to transport Steele into custody the next  
  
day. Or rather, Faye had elected to do so, since hers was the only pilot/ship team that consisted of two functioning members. She had thought it best not to risk her dwindling fuel supplies by flying without a decent night's sleep; a policy that even Spike had to admit was wise. Thus, Steele was to spend the meantime as the recipient of that very special Bebop hospitality.  
  
As for the armed guard, Spike knew that that was for his benefit. Though Jet wouldn't admit to it, Ed had been put there because he didn't trust him with Steele; as well he might not, considering all that had happened. But Spike had no intention of releasing Steele, nor could he, as he now lacked the appendages for undoing knots. No, Spike was here for something else entirely.  
  
Ambling across the room, Spike reached the sofa and sat down on its side, facing Steele. He watched the fighter for a short while as he lingered on the cusp of sleep before speaking.  
  
"Hey, Stainless." he said.  
  
Steele stirred momentarily, and then slowly began to raise his head.  
  
"Hmm?" he murmured distantly.  
  
He then laid his half-closed eyes upon Spike.  
  
"Oh, hey there, Spike." he said. "Is it time to go already?"  
  
"Not yet." Spike replied. "I just thought you might like some company."  
  
If there was one thing that Spike had learned about Steele, it was that he was starved of just that.  
  
Stainless gave a gentle, if laboured smile, and shifted himself around slightly in his chair.  
  
"That's good of you. But I'll tell you what I'd really like."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
Steele winced slightly.  
  
"An aspirin." he said. "I can't remember the last time anyone hit me that hard."  
  
Spike returned Steele's smile. From where he sat, he could just see the gauze that covered Steele's injury peeking around the left hand side of his head.  
  
"Sorry about that," Spike said. "I'm afraid my shipmates and I don't share the same values."  
  
"Don't worry about it." Steele assured him. "Besides, it looks like I'm the one who should be apologising to you."  
  
Spike glanced down momentarily at his own infirmities.  
  
"That's alright." Spike assured Steele back. "I'm getting kind of used to it."  
  
"Accident prone, huh?" Steele chuckled.  
  
Spike smiled enigmatically,  
  
"Something like that." he said.  
  
Steele smiled, and then glanced across to his right, where Ed was still pacing back and forth across the doorway.  
  
"So, uh, how did you get past security?" he asked.  
  
"Who, Ed? I had clearance."  
  
"Interesting kid." Steele commented, clearly trying to be polite. "I take it she's not any of yours."  
  
Spike shuddered at the very thought.  
  
"Nope, she's a wild one." Spike replied.  
  
"Guessed as much." Steele said. "Kind of reminds me of someone I knew from the business. He left shortly after I arrived in Earth, though."  
  
Spike chose not to ask. The thought that there could be someone out there like Ed with the skills of a pit fighter was nightmarish indeed.  
  
"You know," said Steele. "I'm not really too good with kids. I suppose it's because you tend not to see many where I work. It's not really a family environment."  
  
The regret in Steele's voice was almost tangible.  
  
"But, I guess you must be pretty good with 'em, what with looking after Ed and all."  
  
"Yeah, you'd think so." Spike replied.  
  
"You ever thought of having any of your own?" Steele asked.  
  
Spike looked out the door to Ed. The young hacker had since abandoned her guard duties, and had begun to play with Ein. She was holding him beneath his forelimbs, and walking him around on his hind legs. While she seemed to be enjoying the activity immensely, the little dog almost looked embarrassed by the whole affair.  
  
It was the sight of Edward's youthful joy and boundless sense of fun that prompted Spike to give an answer as frank and honest as any he had ever given. Turning back to Steele, he replied,  
  
"I'd rather go another eleven rounds with you."  
  
"C'mon Spike," Steele chortled. "It can't be that bad."  
  
"Maybe." Spike conceded. "Certainly couldn't do any worse as a father than I did fighting you."  
  
"Hey, don't beat yourself up." said Steele. "You know, those were some pretty impressive moves. What was that, Jeet Kun-Do?"  
  
Spike smiled, being only too happy to have changed the subject.  
  
"Good eye." he replied.  
  
"Yeah, well I've seen all the styles over the years." Steele said, deflecting the praise with an embarrassed smirk. "Actually, with a little work, you might just make it the sport. Do you have any prostheses?"  
  
Spike went to speak, but quickly caught his breath. Then, with an artificial offhandedness, he replied,  
  
"None that I know of."  
  
"Oh. Well, it's probably for the best." said Steele. "It's not a pleasant business. A kid like you shouldn't be getting mixed up with characters like me."  
  
It was remarkable how naïve Steele was. Spike was unsure of whether to be astounded or disappointed by the fighter's poor judgement of character. Even now, after all that had happened, Steele still seemed to view him as the friendly fisherman who had opened his door to a lonely old man. Or maybe he had known all along, but had chosen to risk his freedom simply for the chance of a little company.  
  
The conversation ebbed. The two men sat in silence, though not an awkward one. After a short time, Spike spoke up.  
  
"You know, I've gotta say you're taking this pretty well."  
  
"What, you mean being turned in?" Steele said.  
  
He looked down at the ground, and sighed.  
  
"Well, I'd be lying if I said I was overjoyed about it. But, I can appreciate that you and your friends need to make a living. Besides, it would be pretty hypocritical of me to complain. It's not like I haven't done worse things for money."  
  
"Hey, you had to make a living too." Spike pointed out.  
  
"No." Steele asserted, taking Spike a little by surprise. "I didn't have to do what I did. I was never forced to kill all those men."  
  
For the first time, Steele was showing regret for all that he had done. Spike was unsure whether to defend him, or to let him speak. Quickly, he decided on the former.  
  
"Those guys knew what they were getting into. They. . ."  
  
"That's not the point." Steele interrupted.  
  
He then paused, and calmed himself slightly.  
  
"I've been fighting for a good forty years now." he confided. "You know, when I first started out, it wasn't for the love of the sport. God, I hadn't even seen a pit-fight, let alone been in one. But I needed somewhere to go. I needed somewhere. . . I needed somewhere to hide."  
  
Steele looked down at the ground, his expression being describable as nothing other than shame.  
  
"You want to know why I've gone so long without being beaten?" he asked solemnly.  
  
Spike did not reply. His response was to continue to listen intently.  
  
Steele looked up. Peering straight into Spike's eyes, he gave an answer that the bounty hunter would not soon forget.  
  
"It's because I'm a coward."  
  
Spike had to fight to contain a look of astonishment.  
  
"When I first arrived in the pit-fighting world, I fought for my survival." Steele went on. "Turned out fighting was a talent of mine. I'd always been a big guy, but until the first time I stepped into the ring for the talent scouts, I'd never even thrown a punch. But once they saw what I could do to a man if was backed into a corner, they couldn't wait to sign me up. The metal forearms were their idea. I think they were inspired after they saw what I did to the poor guy they stuck me in the ring with."  
  
Steele was baring his soul, and had not needed much cajoling to do so. This was a story that had been written over the course of forty long years in a world not fit for most civilised people, and that had had no outlet until this moment. Though Spike's restrained exchanges with Jet had left him ill prepared for this outpouring, he could not help but feel he should listen. He owed the old fighter that much.  
  
"After that, I was in." Steele continued. "Every week, I'd walk out into an arena, fight for my life, and then walk out. For years, I killed and I killed, and just shrugged it off. The guys knew what they were getting into, and they'd have done the same to me given half the chance. But after a while it started to work on my mind, the faces of the other fighters, looking at me in the seconds before I ended their lives. At times it was almost more than I could bear. That's why I needed Stainless Steele, that *thing* you see step into the ring, it's not me, not really. It's just something I hide behind, because I couldn't face the reality of what I was doing."  
  
"You could have left." Spike said.  
  
"No, I was under contract. There was no way out." Steele paused. "Well, there was one way. All I had to do was to let my guard down, just once. That's all it would have taken. After that, there'd have been no contract that could bind me. Fact is most of the scars I have are from those times when I came closest to doing just that. But when it came down to it, I was too scared. I didn't want to die, so I killed instead. I was too afraid to face my death, just like I was too afraid to face my life."  
  
Steele looked away, and gave a sad chuckle.  
  
"I can't believe it." he said softly, sounding more as if he was speaking to himself than to Spike. "I can't believe I've been running for forty years."  
  
Losing his composure for a second, Spike allowed a cast of confusion to come over his face. It was this expression that Steele responded to upon turning to face him.  
  
"That's why I got into the business," he said. "I was running from my life, my real life. I had. . . some pretty serious problems. I mean, I could have resolved them, right there and then. But I didn't. I turned tail and I ran."  
  
For an instant, Spike considered asking what had happened. But he quickly changed his mind, realising how he would receive that same question were the roles reversed.  
  
"For the longest time after, I told myself that I'd left it all behind. I convinced my self that life was gone - dead and buried. And, after twenty years of convincing, I guess I just wasn't ready for the day that my old life really did die."  
  
Realisation, sharp and penetrating like a guilt-edge dagger, pierced Spike's consciousness. He understood.  
  
"Something happened, something that ended it all without my ever being there." Steele said distantly, as if simultaneously reliving the event in his mind. "And then I was stranded. Stuck in a life I had never wanted, with nowhere to go, and nothing to go back to."  
  
Those solemn words marked the end of Steele's story, and in more ways than one. Spike could see now that it was not a distain for hypocrisy that kept Steele from bemoaning his situation. The sad fact was, he didn't care. He didn't care whether he lived out a comfortable retirement, or spent his the rest of his days trudging about the courtyard of some hellish penal colony. Either one would be a prison to him, an endless cell with no bars to bend and no walls to breach.  
  
Steele gave a gentle smile.  
  
"Listen to me," he said. "Boring some poor youngster with my sob story. I really have become an old man."  
  
"I like a good story every now and again." Spike said.  
  
True enough, since most of his and Jet's emotionally stunted tête-à-têtes comprised stories and fables, employed to prevent any expression of feeling.  
  
"I should hire some hack to write my life story." Steele chortled softly.  
  
He then sighed wearily, and lowered his head.  
  
"Listen, Spike, it's getting kind of late. I really should get some sleep, so if it's all the same to you. . ."  
  
Spike gave his trademark skewed smile.  
  
"No problem. I think it's time I headed off anyway." he said.  
  
Then, remembering a conversation he had once had with Steele, he continued.  
  
"The folks are probably getting worried."  
  
Steele yawned, and face creased up into a half-hearted smile.  
  
"Thanks, kid. Oh, and could you do me a favour?" he asked, already near sleep.  
  
"Sure thing, Stainless."  
  
"On your way out, could you try and make sure no one sees you? It wouldn't look good if I was just letting people waltz in and out of my dressing room without at least crippling them."  
  
Spike returned Steele's smile. It seemed the old man's memory was as sharp as ever.  
  
"No problem." he replied.  
  
Spike then levered himself off the sofa, and steadily began to limp towards the door. As he reached the threshold, he glanced back over his shoulder. There he saw Steele, his head lowered and eyes closed, very much the way he had found him moments earlier.  
  
Allowing the his gaze to linger, Spike uttered the words,  
  
"Good night, Stainless."  
  
And with that he exited the room, leaving behind a man who had been a prominent part of his past and, if he did not heed the warnings, could one day be his future.  
  
***  
  
Spike lay awake on his bed, staring up at the ceiling of his shoebox of a bedroom. The air conditioning on the ship was beginning to fail due to the near exhausted fuel supply, and as a result the air on the Bebop had become warm and humid, making it difficult to sleep. Also, Spike's injuries were still causing him great discomfort, as the bounty hunters' dwindling funds could not cover painkillers.  
  
As uncomfortable as all this was, it was still an improvement over the past week. During that time, he had lost a great deal of sleep over his now resolved issues with Steele. In particular, he no longer felt any regret at being responsible for the fighter's capture, since his resulting incarceration would be no worse than life on the outside. Not that Spike was pleased about Steele's predicament, he was just happy to be relieved of the responsibility. Wasn't that always the way?  
  
As he stared up at the bland, rust brown bulkheads, he listened to the ambient hums and clanks of the sleeping Bebop as she rocked gently in her crib of water, soothed by the lullaby of a softly lamenting sea.  
  
Spike noticed something odd. There was a new sound lurking amid the familiar mumblings of the ships systems - a regular thumping sound. Spike listened to the sound with a partial curiosity, wondering only casually where they could be coming from. As the thumps continued to come, he began to count them. Slowly, the monotonous pounding began to lull Spike into a light sleep.  
  
The thumping stopped. Spike was aware enough of this to pull himself back from the brink of unconsciousness. Then, realising that the sound was most probably only that of another of the ships systems starving to death, he closed his eyes and began to fall the rest of the way. . .  
  
Spike sat bolt upright, much to the consternation of his many ailments. He winced for a moment, and then turned his attention to that which had roused him. A thunderous roar was resonating through the ship's hull, rattling all of her steadily failing innards. The sound was worrying familiar.  
  
Twisting himself around, Spike placed his feet on the floor and laboriously hauled himself to his feet. But even as he did this, the sound was beginning to recede, vanishing slowly into the night from which it had burst so rudely.  
  
Spike levered himself upright, and began to make his way to the door; a token gesture, since it was likely already too late.  
  
***  
  
With a groan of effort, Spike turned down the short stretch of corridor that led to the sitting room. The roar that had stirred him from his rest had since dissipated, and now the ambience was once again dominated by the restful muttering of the Bebop's systems.  
  
Looking down this latest length of corridor, he saw Faye. Clad in knee- length nightshirt, and stood with her back turned and fists rested on her hips, she was staring through the doorway of the sitting room, which lay at the end of the hallway.  
  
As Spike ambled down the corridor, the object of Faye's attention came into view. The chair in which Steele had once sat was now vacant, and displaced from its original resting place. Further, the stair rails to which the fighter had been bound were now broken and bent, reaching away from their old bindings as if trying to grasp at their fleeing captive. Periodically Faye would release an expletive or two, most probably directed at Steele or at her own bad luck.  
  
Faye looked over her shoulder as she heard the rhythmic thumping of Spike's plastered foot against the deck plates.  
  
"So how 'bout it Spike," she said, scowling viciously. "Was this your doing?"  
  
Spike waited until he had moved up along side Faye before he replied.  
  
"Sure Faye," he said. "I bent the bars with my own bare hands."  
  
Faye glanced at Spike's heavily bound arm and hand, and huffed loudly at her failed attempt to find a scapegoat.  
  
"I still wouldn't have put it past you." she said, looking back at the scene of the escape.  
  
"I think you can blame shoddy metal work for this one." Spike said. "Jet really needs to treat the ship for rust once in a while."  
  
"Are you kidding?" Faye replied. "The rust is all that keeps this bucket together. And besides, I think some of the blame should fall to our armed guard."  
  
Faye turned around, a cue that was followed by Spike. There they found Ed, sitting with her back against the wall, her broom across her lap and Ein at her side. Both were fast asleep.  
  
Faye approached the snoozing hacker.  
  
"Thanks for raising the alarm, Ed." she drawled, and prodded Ed in the thigh with her slippered foot.  
  
Edward grinned inanely in her sleep.  
  
"It was Ed's pleasure." she replied.  
  
The words that tumbled from Ed's mouth were followed by a large drop of saliva, adding to a pool that had formed at her side.  
  
"Gross." Faye commented. "No wonder we have a rust problem."  
  
"So where's Jet?" Spike asked.  
  
"I don't know." Faye replied. "Probably in the hangar already."  
  
With that, Spike turned and began to slowly make his way to the hangar. Faye followed, keeping pace with him as he accelerated to a steady crawl. This modest pace suited them both, since neither was especially looking forward to finding Jet.  
  
***  
  
Spike hoisted his foot over the threshold, and then allowed it to drop painfully onto the floor of the hangar. As he entered, he could see Jet standing at the far end of the room with his back turned. The eldest bounty hunter appeared to be staring at the hangar door with his hands clasped across the top of his head. However, Spike was unable to see why Jet was so engrossed by the door due to the dim lighting brought on by the ship's power shortage.  
  
Faye entered the hangar after Spike, and the two began to steadily make their way towards their colleague.  
  
"Hey, Jet." Spike called as he drew closer.  
  
There was no reply.  
  
"Hey, Jet." Spike repeated, this time a little more forcefully.  
  
Having allowed Spike to test the water, Faye added,  
  
"Hey Jet, are you alright?"  
  
Still there was no response. And as Spike and Faye closed in on Jet, they began to see why he was so dumbfounded.  
  
The hangar door, freshly repaired and painted little more than a week earlier, now bore a host of distinctly fist shaped dents. This certainly explained the thumping that had been heard a short time ago.  
  
Drawing up at Jet's left and right respectively, Faye and Spike examined the full extent of the damage. There were around two-dozen deep dents in all, ranging from waste to head height. The most interesting thing of all was that the dents seemed to form a pattern - a series of four letters.  
  
"C-U-S-C." Spike read under his breath.  
  
Faye moved to her left and thumped the panel to open the access hatch. The door slid back, allowing a wave a cool, moist night air to wash into the hangar; a refreshing sensation after a night spent in the humid confines of the Bebop. Peering outside, she hissed,  
  
"Shit. I knew we should have siphoned his fuel."  
  
She drew her head back inside, and moved back up along side Jet, choosing to leave the door open and enjoy the natural air conditioning.  
  
"I'm going after him." she stated, then turned and paced purposefully towards the Redtail, which now headed up the queue of small ships.  
  
"Don't bother." Spike said. "You haven't got the fuel to catch him. And beside, the hangar door will never roll all the way up with those dents in it.  
  
Faye stared at Spike, searching for an argument against his advice. But none came.  
  
Groaning loudly, she folded her arms and turned her scowling face towards the hangar doors.  
  
"So, what do you suppose it means?" she grumbled. "I recon he's taunting us."  
  
"Silly Faye-Faye." Edward's drowsy voice came.  
  
Faye and Spike both looked around to find Ed standing unsteadily behind them. The hacker was swayed gently from side to side with an unconscious Ein draped over her head like a living night hat.  
  
"That's a message for Spike-person." she confided, her eyes still shut.  
  
Spike looked back at the cryptic message, and smiled slightly as he realised what it meant.  
  
"Whatever, Ed." Faye said, and then looked at Spike. "So I guess this means we're back to square one now, huh?"  
  
At that moment, a cool gust of wind blew in from outside. It was accompanied by the sound of flapping paper, coming from just outside the doorway. Both Faye and Spike noticed the sound, but it was the nearer and less infirm Faye that went to investigate.  
  
Examining the area outside the door, she noticed an object resting against the hull. Kneeling down she plucked the object, a thick and rather worn looking book, from the ground. Then, standing up, she turned and re-entered the hangar.  
  
"What's this?" Faye said softly as she began to thumb through the thick, discoloured pages.  
  
Before she could study more closely the contents of the book, it was scooped from her grasped abruptly by a bandaged, though extraordinarily quick hand.  
  
"Hey!" she snapped.  
  
Spike ignored Faye's protest, and began to examine the book himself. From the red and black marbled cover and the heavily taped spine, he quickly realised to his astonishment that this was the same scrapbook that he had found that evening in Steele's dressing room. Resting the book's spine on his good hand, he began to turn the pages carefully with his bandaged one.  
  
They were all there. Just as before, every page bore two newspaper clippings describing fights from earlier in Steele's career, accompanied by notes for future improvements to his training regime.  
  
A thought occurred to Spike. Tipping the book, he skipped to the final page. Sure enough, the last of the tome's thick, discoloured leaves bore the clippings from the fighter's last two fights; his thrashing of Tiger Po, and what the headline suggested to be a rout of Sabre Khan. A note followed the first of these, suggesting work to improve reflexes. The final clipping bore no addendum.  
  
A second thought occurred to Spike. Hastily, he tipped the book again this time flicking to the front inside cover. However, he did not find what he had expected - the tiny news clipping that he had not had the chance to read when first he found this book. All that remained to signal its existence was a small, dark rectangle where it had once been, and some dried glue residue. It seemed that that was the only memory from the scrapbook that Steele was interested in keeping.  
  
It didn't matter. Spike had a feeling he knew what it was.  
  
There was a piece of paper taped to the top of the cover, though. A short note, scrawled hastily onto a ragged scrap of white paper, it read, 'Guess I'm still not ready to let my guard down'.  
  
Spike smiled to himself.  
  
"Well I'm glad you're happy." Faye griped. "Let's see if you can still smile when we're starving to death."  
  
"I don't think that's gonna be a problem." Spike said, looking up at Faye.  
  
"What do you mean?" she asked.  
  
"There's a lot of people out there who would pay a good few Woolongs for a collector's item like this." Spike looked down at the book. "I think Steele knew that."  
  
"For that piece of crap?" Faye said, sceptically. "Remind me to write him a thank you note."  
  
Without retort, Spike turned from the sarcastic Faye to a sleepy Edward.  
  
"So Ed," he said. "You want to go put this on the internet?"  
  
Ed yawned loudly.  
  
"Edward will do it tomorrow." she replied.  
  
Ed then turned, and began to beat a winding path out of the hangar.  
  
"I'm going back to bed." Faye said, resignedly. "It's bad enough that I have to die of starvation. The last thing I need is to show up to my funeral with bags under my eyes."  
  
With that she turned and followed Ed towards the door, albeit following slightly straighter course.  
  
Of course, Faye was worried over nothing. In Spike's experience, a piece of memorabilia like that he held would be snapped up very quickly. Perversely, it might even be worth more than Steele's bounty. Though there was no way to know for sure, Spike felt certain that this was Steele's way of saying thank you. Even in light of all that had happened, he still seemed appreciative of having been invited into the Bebop family, and for being relieved of his loneliness, even if it was only for a little while.  
  
Spike yawned as it dawned on him just how little sleep he had had.  
  
"I guess I should hit the sack too." he said, and turned for the door. "Good night, Jet."  
  
Jet did not respond, though. He just continued to stare slack-jawed at his battered hangar door, hands still clasped across his bald head.  
  
Spike glanced over his shoulder, and read Steele's final message one last time. And, with that trademark, skewed smile of his, he uttered softly,  
  
"So long, Stainless."  
  
***  
  
See you, Space Cowboy. . . 


End file.
